


The Cub and the Lightning Lord

by AnadoraBlack



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ashara Mormont/Ash Snow, F/M, Jorah has a daughter, Mormonts are wild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 15:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 26,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21017783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnadoraBlack/pseuds/AnadoraBlack
Summary: Ashara Mormont is reunited with her father Jorah after a decade on the roads. But even as the Battle of the Night is getting near, she cannot help but wonder whether or not she'll be reunited with another man in her life: Beric Dondarrion, the Lightning Lord of the Brotherhood without Banners...[AU from 7x07 onwards]





	1. The bastard who wasn't

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hello my friends!  
I am coming to you today with a fic that took a long time to polish, and quite a lot of reading ahead of time. I've never read the books, hence why this work is set in the series fandom. But I did my homwork, you'll see if only in the dates I use.  
Please leave a word if you like it or don't, as I'm always interested to hear what you think! :D

  1. ****The bastard who wasn’t****

* * *

_305 A.C. Whiteharbour_

* * *

The ship had just accosted in Whiteharbour and already a crowd was descending from it, hurried by the urgency in the letter that a raven had brought Queen Daenerys not an hour prior.

Ser Davos, Hand to King Jon Snow – but was he still a king? – was standing next to his monarch, his brow furrowed, his hands, as always, linked behind him. The Bastard Wolf, as he was sometimes called, was re-reading the message, not quite believing what it said, apparently.

“Is this it then?” a feminine voice asked from behind Ser Davos.

The old smuggler didn’t turn around, knew already who had shadowed him, and when a mane of unruly brown hair appeared in his vision, whipped around by the biting wind, he nodded. “Aye, I fear this is it.”

The young woman huffed, a hand on the hilt of the dagger she wore at her hip. She could have easily passed for a Wildling if she hadn’t been wearing armour awfully similar to that of the man standing close to Queen Daenerys. “And what of our allies there?”

Jon Snow turned to look at her, his dark eyes filled with worry and grief – but he couldn’t know, could he? “Bran doesn’t say. Says he hasn’t seen.”

There were no more deliberations about whether or not the youngest Stark boy could be trusted with something as strange as visions. Instead, all leaders of some sort gathered to talk about their next move, and the young woman remained back while the ‘grown-ups’ talked.

Ashara was twenty-six years old. She had seen winters come and go, springs go and come, but she knew the matter at hand was something else entirely. She had seen the undead brought forth by Sandor Clegane. She had witnessed it and started believing it at that precise moment it leapt out of its crate, despite her father’s depictions when he returned from North of the Wall.

“My Lady?” After being called ‘Snow’ for so long, Ashara did not realise she was addressed to until she caught sight of Missandei, Daenerys’ most trusted advisor and friend.

She smirked. “I am no lady, Missandei, you should know.”

“I was taught to show respect to my betters,” the other woman joked. They were no stranger to banter, and the two liked the other quite a lot, to the extent where Ashara did not hesitate before voicing her worries.

“I wonder if Lord Beric is still alive.”

Missandei cocked her beautiful head to the side, clearly unsure as to whom she was talking about. Ashara smiled at her, realising her mistake, and waved the matter away.

That is until Ser Davos seemed to wonder exactly the same thing as her. “What about Tormund and Lord Beric? If there’s even one tiny chance that they’re alive, we should take it!”

“And do what?” Lord Tyrion said quite vehemently. He was nearly invisible in the layers of fur he was wearing. “The Queen has already lost one dragon, to commandeer one and risk facing the Night King once again would be a folly!”

Ashara felt her heart constrict in her chest. She looked on the horizon, north, to try and see the object of her worries – the Wall. But it was too far away still, and she could do little but wonder if anyone who mattered to her had survived its fall.

“Ashara? What is it?”

She shifted her gaze and met the blue eyes of her father. She had the same, and when in times like these, their colour was closer to green on both persons. She had never looked more like him than in this moment. “I hope they made it.”

She hated to be seen as weak. She had not had a moment of weakness in a long time, but ever since Jon Snow had talked about the company he made north, she longed to see that face which she had so loved, a long time ago…

Her father seemed to understand, for he had seen the shift in her when the King in the North had told of their adventures. He had seen her react to the name, and he had been willing to ask, but never had the opportunity.

“Will you tell me, how you two met?”

She met his kind gaze. “I will, one day. I promise.”


	2. A Princess I am not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here start the flashbacks. Enjoy.

  1. **** A Princess I am not****

* * *

_282 A.C. Bear Island_

* * *

Ashara was running away from her septa. Which bothered said septa to no end, but the four-year-old could not be tamed. Like a cub that started to discover the world, she would not settle. Granted, she could already read and write her firstname, but she was not going to be a proper lady if she didn’t start behaving like one.

She had just turned a corner leading to the kitchens when a tall frame snatched her from the ground, and she giggled when she was met with the kind face of her grandfather.

Jeor Mormont could never resist his granddaughter. She had inherited her father’s stubbornness, but also, to everyone’s pain, her mother’s charms. And Lysa Glover was very charming indeed. “Hey there little cub! Where’re you goin’?”

She giggled again and leaned into his mass of greying hair to whisper a secret. “Away from Septa.”

“Aw,” Jeor said with a pained grimace, “poor Septa. What ‘as she done to deserve such treatment?”

Ashara rolled her eyes. “She’s borin’ Granpy.”

“_Granpy?_ Told ya before ya cheeky devil, ye cannae call me tha’!”

She struggled in his grasp and chuckled some more. “I like callin’ ye Granpy!” She pouted, and the older man rolled his own eyes before relenting.

He always did. “Alrigh’, wha’ d’ya say to a practice session then?” He had to supervise the youngsters’ training anyway, indulging his son’s offspring for an hour or two would be no trouble at all. And she proved to already be proficient with a dagger, albeit a small one.

Ashara beamed at her grandfather. “Yay!” And then she ran ahead of the old bear, who shook his head as he followed.

What a troublesome little cub they had there.

* * *

Ashara did not like sitting like that. In a dress. She didn’t like dresses. And she didn’t like having stuff in her hair either. At least, when those things weren’t bugs or tendrils of hay.

Her mother, to her left, placed a hand on hers to stop her fussing and tried to shush her. Lysa Glover was radiant as always, her chestnut hair falling gracefully on her shoulders, the pelisse of fur highlighting her pale skin and grey eyes. Ashara caught the look her father sent them, and she stuck out her tongue.

For a girl of four, seeing your grandfather relent power was not something that meant a lot. She only knew that today, her Granpy would give her Papa his sword, would kneel in front of him, and that she’d become the heir of Bear Island. She hadn’t a clue what it meant. She thought her septa might have tried to explain, but she wasn’t paying attention.

“Ash, listen!” her mother’s whisper brought her back to the matter at hand, and the oath her father was taking. She sighed in boredom.

What she wouldn’t give to be out in the woods, playing Bear and Wolf, her favourite game, and chasing her friends until their feet ached. But she couldn’t. And she was angry.

When at last the deed was done, there was a clamour in the room that chanted her Papa’s name. She wanted to join, but her mother prevented her from doing so. She grew angrier still.

* * *

“Bu’ I don’ understand why you are leavin’!”

The girl was pouting again, but this time real tears were in her eyes as she regarded her Granpy who saddled his horse. He was wearing black, black cloak, black chestpiece, black everything. It made him look more impressive to anyone else but her. He was still her big cuddly grandfather who could not say no to her.

“I ‘ave sworn to help where I can, Ash…” He knelt in front of her. “Tha’ doesn’ mean we won’ see each other again! And we can write each other!” He smiled, but even a child could feel it was fake. “Practice your le’ers for me, eh?”

She shook her head. “I wan’ ye to stay. Or I wanna go with ye.”

Jeor stood back up, and Jorah came to place his hands on his daughter’s shoulders. Tears were glistening in the tiny girl’s eyes again, but she pushed them away, noticing how neither of the most important men in her life was crying.

“Take care of ‘er, son. She’s to be treasured.”

Jorah nodded and squeezed Ash’s shoulders some more. “I promise I will, father.”

Jeor nodded, and then he took his horse by the bridle and started towards the door, towards his new adventure, away from those who loved him.

Ashara fussed to try and run after him, but her father wrapped his arm around her and pulled her back, and her high-pitched screams did nothing to stop her grandfather from leaving her…

* * *

_305 A.C. Winterfell_

* * *

“We’ve received word at last, Your Grace.”

Ashara was standing next to her father next to Daenerys, as was their use, when a messenger carried the message to the room that served as both hers and Jon Snow’s governing chambers.

This time it wasn’t the boy, Bran, but a raven sent from up North, in one of the Wall’s last functioning castles. Or, well, one of the castles that had been occupied by the Wildlings.

“And?” The Dragon Queen’s tone left little to imagination. She was impatient. As always.

“The army of the dead left them behind, Your Grace. And…your dragon is with the Night King now.”

Daenerys visibly tensed, her hands gripping the arms of her chair so powerfully that her knuckles were white. She kept on breathing evenly, which was a feat in itself, Ashara thought, then answered. "Anything else?”

The messenger bowed the head. “Your Wildling allies have rejoined Castle Black and await your instruction. That is all.”

Ashara’s heart leaped in her chest and her impulsive side made her jump forward. “Wait!” The boy turned back towards her. “Can I see the letter?”

He looked at the Queen, who nodded, and then walked to reach Ashara and place the roll of parchment in her hand.

She stared at it for a long while, until her father came to stand beside her and enquire on her well-being. Her eyes were filled with tears, and she said nothing, merely showed the signature on the parchment.

It wasn’t a crow, symbol of the Night’s Watch. It was a lightning bolt.

Beric Dondarrion was alive.


	3. Once on the South Road

  1. **** Once on the South Road****

* * *

_284 A.C. Bear Island_

* * *

“My Lady, no, you _cannot_ go in!”

The six-year-old was battling against her septa, the string of a bow strapped to her slender shoulders. She was screaming too, calling for the woman who was yelling at the top of her lungs on the other side of that blasted door.

“Let me go! It’s my ma! Mama! _Mama!_” She kept calling and calling, but Lysa didn’t answer, her gut-wrenching cries echoing around the whole cold corridor.

Ash’s father had gone inspect some villages he was lord to, to catch any remaining rebels who were still loyal to House Targaryen, and had missed the first hours of his wife’s labour. But now, it had been more than sixteen, and even the small girl knew something was wrong.

She had elated at first when, in the middle of her archery practice, she had been told her mother had started the labour previous to giving birth. She was excited to see a little brother or sister into the world, even if a brother would take her place as heiress to Bear Island.

She didn’t care to be a lady much. She hated wearing dresses, she preferred learning how to fight than how to sow, and staying in one place to hear people give their doleances bore her to death.

But now the elation had passed, and her mother was in pain, and it wasn’t normal, and Papa wasn’t there.

“_Mama! Mama!”_ she kept fighting until there was no more fight to be fought.

Her mother’s cries faded into a deafening silence that froze Ash’s bones, and she heard her father’s heavy footsteps before he appeared, running into the corridor to reach his wife’s bedrooms.

Jorah Mormont was pale, paler than usual, his green-blue eyes wide with worry, and he didn’t spare his daughter a glance as he reached the door. He raised a gloved hand, his armour clanking noisily against the silence of the room, and knocked on the door with a ‘Open up, it’s your Lord and Master!’ that sounded a bit too weak.

Ashara stopped thrashing then. Her father was there. He would make everything better. Everything was better when he was there. She let the septa gently pull her back further away from the door, and kept her eyes on it, heart filling with hope. _Papa will make it better._

But the silence didn’t fade even after Jorah entered the room. It grew in intensity, until other cries came interrupting the quietness.

Ash froze.

Those were her father’s cries.

* * *

_289 A.C. Lannisport_

* * *

Ashara hated these events. Granted, she loved to see the knights fighting each other on the pit, and did her best to hide to obvious excitement in her eyes when she witnessed a particularly skilled fighter; but it didn’t change the fact that she hated it.

She had to dress up and play perfect little lady, and she hated it.

She also hated Lannisport, that was for sure. The tall fortress her septa had taught her was Casterly Rock stood proudly on the cliff and the sea was just a breath away, but the whole place stank with sweat and blood, and lacked the peaceful quietness of the woods of her birthplace.

“My Lady Mormont, how you have grown!”

Ashara looked to the side, rather unimpressed by the person who had spoken up. Reaching mostly her height, with curly brown hair and a smile that would make lesser girls swoon, was Renly Baratheon. She had met him once before, with his older brother King Robert. He was older than her by a year, and she prayed to the Old Gods that she’d never be asked to marry him, as he was infuriating and far too pretty.

“My Lord Renly,” she answered bitterly, “are you fighting in the joust?”

He chuckled. “I am twelve, my Lady, I can’t possibly fight. I will enjoy watching your father, though.”

She didn’t answer, which didn’t seem to phase the poor boy who merely smiled even brighter and left. Ash’s septa was displeased at her lack of politeness, but she didn’t care. Pretty Baratheon boys were not for her.

She eyed all those in assistance and watched them with disdain. These people were not Northerners, safe one or two, and she vouched there and then that she’d only agree to link herself to a man from the North. If ever at all.

Her father was maybe a Knight now, but she was not going to be a lady if she had a say in the matter.

* * *

Lynesse Hightower was pretty. Very pretty.

She was also not Ash’s mother. Despite what Jorah asked of her when he took her aside and told her he intended to ask for the lady’s hand in marriage.

She was not Ashara’s mother, and she would never be. However pretty she was, however luscious her hair, however bright her eyes.

To that day, Ashara Mormont vouched she’d hate the woman who thought she could replace Lady Lysa Glover, her dear-departed mother.

* * *

_305 A.C. Winterfell_

* * *

Ashara was standing in front on the battlements, facing North, her hand gripping the hilt of her dagger hard. She did not really know what she was trying to see on the horizon, because it was too soon for the Army of the Dead to have crossed that much distance; but she was waiting for sure.

The biting of the cold did little to move her from her post. She did not wear any furs, and could feel her ears growing colder by the second – she’d maybe lose one at this rate – the wind making the small wisps of her brown hair fly around her like a mad halo.

“There ye are.”

Ash did not look away from her point on the horizon, and greeted the person who had chosen to disturb her. “Something to bother me with Ser Davos?”

The old smuggler chuckled darkly. “Not really. Thought ye might like to be reacquainted, though.”

She arched a brow, wondering what he meant, and when she looked at him, her eyes went wide, for he was not alone.

She had heard, of course, that the young smith had been found and salvaged from King’s Landing, that he was smithing away for the King in the North, but she had not had the heart to go and confront him before.

“Gendry,” she breathed, albeit a little too breathlessly. He looked healthy, bulkier than he had been, happier too if the smile he wore was any indication.

“The lad here told me yous ‘ad met before!” the old man continued with a cheeky glint in his eye. “Made friends ‘ave ye?”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t find a quip quicker enough to stop Gendry from responding with a “She was fonder of the Lord of Lightning, to be honest.” She glared at the boy, who merely smiled at her.

Choosing to change the subject, she retorted with a “Thought you’d be dead by now.”

“Likewise.”

Davos looked between the two of them several times, frowning, before he asked “’Ave ye two tried ter kill each other or somet’in’?”

Gendry chuckled darkly. “No, nothing like that. She was on their side rather than on mine, but nothing harsh.”

“So you’re not one of those who sold ‘im off to that red bitch?”

Ashara looked at the old man harshly. It was not because of his choice of words, but rather because of what he had suspected her of being capable of. “I wasn’t there. If I had been, he’d have never gone.”

“That I believe,” Gendry said calmly. “If you’d been there to calm the _old zombie_ off, he’d have not sent me to her.”

“The ‘old zombie’?” Davos asked with a smirk. “Is that’ ‘ow you call poor old Beric now?”

“Well, he is technically dead, isn’t he?”

“Bugger off ye cheeky bastard!” Davos playfully wacked the boy behind the head, which made Ashara smile a bit. She had seen Ser Davos play surrogate-father before, to King Jon, but seeing him carefree with another boy his son’s age always was endearing.

“My Lady,” Gendry bowed before leaving the battlements.

Davos turned back to Ashara. “So, ye _did_ like the ‘old zombie’, then? I never asked.”

“Then don’t ask again,” she sneered before hurrying back inside.


	4. Cold as snow

  1. **** Cold as snow****

* * *

_293 A.C. Bear Island_

* * *

There was an enormous commotion all around the castle. Ashara sprung out of her rooms, ready to scold whomever was disturbing her careful meditation – more like a knife-throwing practice, but no need to boast – and froze.

Her parents – although she still refused to call Lynesse her mother – had left her in charge of Bear Island while they travelled down to Gulltown. She had rebuffed their offer to come with, for one because she hated going South unless it was entirely necessary, and for two because she’d rather not be the fifth wheel again. Witnessing her father moon over Lynesse was hard enough when they were home.

Ashara sneered at the guards who were currently invading the corridors of her house. “Who are you?”

One guard huffed at her, obviously not recognizing the lady of the place. Truth be told, she never wore the dresses she’d normally have to don when leading in her father’s absence; but the way she was holding herself should have been a dead giveaway. “Move away, wench. We have work to do.”

She eyed the chest-plate of the man and snorted. “And unless Lord Stark is looking for his son in my bed, where he most definitely is not, I don’t see why you are invading my father’s stronghold unannounced. Sir.”

She held her chin up, and despite her young age – fifteen – she oozed confidence. The blade she was still twirling between her fingers itched to be buried in anyone of these intruders’ backs. Legitimate reason or not.

Another guard pushed past the rude one, and eyed her up and down. “You are Lady Ashara Mormont?”

“That I am.” He bowed the head briefly, then handed her a piece of parchment that held the Starks’ sigil. The wolf glared at her, and she frowned as she eyed it. “Is there anything Lord Stark needs with my father? He is not home, by the way, so no need to knock his door down.” She nearly barked the last sentence, and the guard – obviously the leader – held a gloved hand up to stop his men’s thrashing.

“Where is he?”

“Away.” She arched a brow. These people’s urgency was abnormal. She broke the parchment’s seal and started reading. Her eyed widened at the sight of words such as ‘_slavery’_, ‘_treason’_, and ‘_condemned’_. She looked up again as a small crowd formed around her. Her great-aunt Maege was not far, ready to intervene if need be, as she had always been. “What is the meaning of this?”

“This means,” the leader said in a slight leering voice, “that your father is now a fugitive. If we catch him, and you can count on the fact that we will, Lord Stark will see to it that judgment is passed.” He paused. “Congratulations, my Lady, you are now Head of your House.” He bowed the head again then whistled once, and the Stark men retreated from the corridor.

Ashara stood there, eyes glazed over the letter she still held. She was mildly aware of someone calling her name – her aunt, maybe – but couldn’t move.

She gritted her teeth and her blue eyes burnt green all of a sudden. She let the letter fall onto the hard stone, and stalked back inside her room, slamming the door shut behind her.

Some might have thought she was having a tantrum like those her age. But in reality, she started packing, bent on one thing and one thing only: finding her father before the Starks did.

* * *

_294 A.C. Somewhere in the Vale_

* * *

She had been searching for near a year by then. A sixteen-year-old, alone with a horse and some weapons and supplies, nothing else. Trying to find her father.

Ashara had been travelling down roads she had studied on maps but never had travelled before. She had hunted animals down, filled water pouches in streams. She had cut her hair short to try and pass as a boy if she should meet someone on the road. And so far, she had failed miserably to her task.

Her father and Lynesse had disappeared from the face of the Earth, as far as she was concerned. She had caught word, somewhere close to home, that her aunt Maege had taken lead of Bear Island, for which she was grateful. For all her family knew, she had died on the roads, like the foolish girl she was.

She didn’t even have enough money to stay in an inn, just enough decency to ask for a night in a stable. Sometimes the owners agreed; sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes they even tried to take what was not theirs to take. And sometimes she considered giving it to them, just to have some bread and straw under her back to sleep.

So far she had resisted the men’s advances, she had stayed clear off people’s paths, she had been the perfect stealthy cub her grand-father had taught her to be.

She couldn’t even remember the last time she had spoken to someone.

Now she was lost somewhere in the Vale of Arryn, and instead of searching for her father, she was now searching for a way to redeem him.

She had read in that blasted letter that he had been caught by his lord, Ned Stark, while selling poachers to slavers. It was a capital offense, and it didn’t make any sense to Ashara. None at all. Her father was not a cruel man, had never been. There was no need for him to sell people out as if they were cattle.

Except… _Except_, she thought as she stared into the flames of the meagre fire keeping her alive, except Lynesse had always been a bit of a precious madam. She had always liked pretty dresses and nice necklaces and bracelets of gold and so on. Ash could even remember a time when she had fussed over a present Jorah had offered her. It was by all means lovely: a thin band of white-gold with a blue gem on it to ‘compliment your favourite outfits’. She had thrown it on the other side of the room and had yelled at her husband in a way Lysa Glover had never done. Ash had glared at her all evening and had ripped one of her step-mother’s favoured dresses to shreds afterwards.

So there could be every chance that if her father _had_ been dealing in slavery, that it had been to keep up with his wife’s desires. And he was so infatuated with the she-devil that he couldn’t possibly imagine her leaving him.

So Ash knew. Her father had been manipulated by that bitch. And she’d do whatever she could to redeem his name and hers.

Thinking about that, she suddenly thought that the name ‘Mormont’ was no longer a pride to bear. She was no longer the little lady proud to bear the name of her fore-fathers. She was not home, and her father had become destitute.

So, until she found a way to make King Robert pardon him, she’d forsake the name he gave her, and choose another, more basic one.

From this day on, she’d be known as Ash Snow.

* * *

_305 A.C. Winterfell_

* * *

She didn’t understand. She couldn’t understand why such a small group had come to attack the keep while such a large number had crossed at the Wall.

Why only twelve bodies now lay on a pyre, ready to burn, while the Night King and the rest of his minions stayed behind.

“Scouts,” she heard King Jon say. He was probably right. He usually was.

Ashara scowled and sheathed her dragon-glass dagger back at her hip. Her usual arrows were no good against the undead, and she made a mental note to ask the smithy to procure her dragon-glass arrows when he had the time.

“It’s frankly quite bizarre ter see ye wearing that,” came a deep voice close to her.

Obviously, her father had been fighting close, bent on protecting the last thing he had in the world that reminded him of his life on Bear Island. He was currently gesturing to the armour she wore, the bear crest proudly raised over her chest.

She chuckled. “Would you have me wear anything else to battle?”

“I would no’ see ye into battle at all, but ye are a Mormont through and through, Ashara.” He smiled proudly, and she mirrored it.

“You think he’d be proud of us now?”

Jorah’s eyes took on a sad glint, and Ash was instantly sorry to make her father feel sad. She knew he was still living with the guilt of what he had done, of what his family had to bear after his transgressions came to light. None more than his doting father.

“I ‘ope so,” he simply said.

Ashara raised her gaze to the sky, cottony and low as if there was yet more snow to fall, and she breathed “I think he is.”

* * *

“My Lady?”

Ash was still unused to be called thus. She had been a lady in more than ten years, and she had no wish to return to that life. It had never suited her. She had always been wild as a cub, and now she was a she-bear, protecting her family against the bite of winter.

She nodded once at the girl who was talking to her – Lady Sansa Stark, if she recalled well – and noticed that in spite of the fact that she was taller than her, the red-head seemed somewhat to make herself smaller next to her. Impressed, was she?

“Can I ask you a question?”

Ash raised a brow. “You can.”

“Pardon me if this sounds stupid, but… Your father retained his northern accent, while you seem to have lost it. But, as I understand it, both of you were away from Bear Island for the same amount of time…”

“I don’t hear a question in there,” Ash smirked. She had never met Sansa before, whereas she had known Robb Stark and Jon Snow quite a bit when they were younger. The girl seemed to be as fragile as glass, but from what she gathered here and there, she was quite the contrary of that. She sighed. “I guess I wanted to lose it as soon as possible to avoid being recognized. Give me two days in the same room as my cousins and I’ll probably be a northerner once again.”

“I’m sorry, this was stupid to ask.”

“No, it wasn’t. After all, apart from the fact that my father recognized me as his daughter, you have no proof I am who I say I am.”

“No offense, my Lady, but are every inch the wild girl I was picturing when Robb was telling me about you.”

Ash smiled fondly. “I liked your brother. Despite his assumptions that we’d wed.” She rolled her eyes at that.

“Well it might be a bit obvious, but he liked you too. When we caught word of your disappearance, I remember him being quite upset, although I was still quite young at the time.”

“You were seven I believe?”

“Yes.” Ashara nodded, although there was nothing more to be said.

Yes, she had enjoyed little Robb Stark’s mischiefs and smiles and games, but she had been five years older than him and it was all it took for him to suddenly become very tiresome. She remembered the day at the Tourney in Lannisport when a six-year-old had declared he’d follow her everywhere and be ‘her Knight’. It had been even more infuriating than Renly’s flirting.

“What’s this?” Sansa then said. As usual, Ashara had taken up post on the battlements, and the lady had joined her, in search of fresh air no doubt.

There, on the horizon, where the edge of some wood could be seen through the snow, a small dot had appeared, then another, and another yet.

“We are under attack again!” Ash said and prepared to whirl around to warn the others. Sansa stopped her with one word.

“_Wait!_” She squinted as the dots became bigger and bigger, approaching the walls with difficulty through the weather conditions. Someone below was already shouting in alarm anyway. “I think…it looks like Tormund.”

Ash froze. She had not met the giant everyone kept talking about – he apparently was quite funny – but she remembered vividly who was supposed to be with him.

Beric.


	5. First encounters

  1. **** First encounters****

* * *

_305 A.C. Winterfell_

* * *

Word had spread like wildfire, garrisons were at the ready in the courtyard, King Jon and Queen Daenerys were in front of the Gate, waiting for either friend or foe. What Sansa had seen – a great bear of a man with a mane like fire – proved to be little to prove that Tormund was indeed the man at the door.

Ashara had remained on the battlements while the younger lady was hurrying down to join her brother/cousin – no one really knew how to refer to him anymore. Soon she was not alone, for both Ser Davos and Lord Tyrion came to flank her. Neither had ever been good warriors, unlike her father whose head of strawberry-blonde she could see close to his Khaleesi.

“Aren’t you going to go see who is there, Lady Mormont?” There was a lilt in the Imp’s voice that she didn’t like. They didn’t know each other enough for him to joke with her.

Unlike Ser Davos who saw past her blank masks better than most – better than Jorah even, sometimes. “She’d rather wait an’ see. Doesn’t like ter keep ‘er hopes up.”

She rolled her eyes. “Will you stop talking as if I wasn’t right there?” She hissed. “Besides, no matter who is there and who accompanies who. I care little for it.”

“Little, eh?” The Imp smirked again, which infuriated her. “Why are you leaning so close to the wall if you’re not trying to see who passes the gate, then?”

She turned away from the scene – the grate slowly being raised to let people pass, either friends to welcome or foes to slay – and glared at the man again. “I am growing tired of people thinking they know how I feel.”

Tyrion raised a brow. “For all I’ve known of you since we met, Lady Mormont, you are quite the closed-up type. You never show any emotion when unprompted. Rather like your father. And like him, now that I think of it, your entire face shifts when someone you care about is mentioned or near. For him, there is no need to say, it is Queen Daenerys. For you, it appears to be Lord Beric Dondarrion.” He smirked again. “I remember him from King’s Landing. Quite dashing. All the ladies wanted him. How about now?” he asked Davos, who was standing with his hands linked in his back as usual.

The old man smirked too. “Ah, now, he’s more scars than man, but he’s still dashin’ if ye wan’ my opinion. No’ that it matters at all.”

Ashara huffed as she would have done when she was fifteen, and kept her back to the wall while the two men kept watching. Why she was not simply leaving and going back inside to lock herself in her assigned room, she didn’t know.

Tyrion let out an amused laugh not two minutes later. “Well, seems to me that your time in Winterfell is going to be quite interesting from now on Lady Mormont.” He laughed again at the frown on her face, then turned to the smuggler-turned-Hand-to-the-King. “Care to accompany me to greet the infamous ‘Lightning Lord’, Ser Davos? I _long_ to see him.”

Both seemed far too amused as they headed back inside, while Ashara was frozen on place, her eyes glazing over and her heart beating frantically in her chest.

He was here. With her. After so long…

She would not know what to say. What to do.

Better hide.

* * *

Except there was really nowhere to hide when everyone knew where you were.

And locking herself up in her room might not have been the best idea she had ever had in retrospection.

It had been an hour, maybe two, maybe three, and she was torn between relief that no one had come to fetch her and demand her presence in the great hall, and disappointment that no one had come to fetch her and demand her presence in the great hall.

It all was for nothing, though, when there suddenly was a knock on her door.

She froze from where she had been pacing in front of the window. The biting wind was calming her nerves better than the cracking of the fire, and she wondered for a second if it wasn’t better to don her armour once again, to appear warrior-like instead of the vulnerable mess she was making of herself.

Instead, she decided to come as she was, and she headed to the door, shaking to her bones as she unlocked it.

_There he was._ Just like that. Unaccompanied, as if it was proper and normal for a known-bachelor to knock on the door of an unmarried woman. But then again, he had always been like this with her. There was no need for pretence, no need for etiquette.

He hadn’t changed much since the last time she had seen him. There were more lines around his good eye – she suspected around the bad one too – his beard was longer and unkempt, and his skin was red thanks to the cold; but other than that, the blue of his eye was still electrifying, and the smile he gave her still made her weak in the knees.

“My Lady Ashara,” he said simply in his deep baritone, and she felt like closing the door and forgetting all about his presence. Her chest felt close to bursting.

“My Lord Beric,” she answered in a shaking voice. “What are you doing here?”

He smiled somehow more mischievously, like his old self, and said “Are we talking about ‘here’ Winterfell or ‘here’ your doorstep?” He paused. “I thought you knew I cared little for propriety when it came to my friends.”

His words sparked something in Ashara. When she understood what it was, the first genuine smile anyone had seen on her face for ages lit up her entire face, making her look younger than her time. “I take it you haven’t died since last time then.”

“You are right, I haven’t.”

“I am glad. I would not have appreciated to remind you of our meeting as I did then.”

“I would not be here if I didn’t remember you, Ash.” The sound of her nickname made a shiver run up her spine. “If I didn’t remember everything.” There was fire in his voice then, not unlike the one he conjured on his blade on a regular basis. Ashara felt little, though she was on par height with him.

Then when she realised when and where they were standing, she moved aside. “Come on in before someone sees you.”

He arched the brow that was partially hidden by his patch. “Scared someone might talk?” He entered anyway, and she locked the door behind him, not caring what message it’d send to the Knight.

“Scared what _my father_ would do to you if he heard.”

Beric’s expression was softer all of a sudden. “I met him, of course, when we were up North. He seems every inch the good man you described back then.”

“He is.” She paused, eyeing him again, him and his heavy coat of fur. “Do put that thing to the side, you are going to boil if we sit in front of the fire.”

He smiled again and stared at her as he shrugged the thing off. Underneath, he was wearing the same old pieces of leather he had been wearing all those years ago, and the same patch of scarred skin was showing on his chest. Suddenly, it was Ash who was boiling inside.

“You have not changed,” he said then. His eye was trained onto her again as she moved a second chair in front of the fireplace. “Your hair is still short.”

“I prefer it that way,” she answered simply. “You still hide your eye.”

How many times had she asked him to take that patch off? How many times had he complied before as he was now?

She knew she was virtually the only person in Westeros he ever showed his bad eye to, if not counting the late Thoros, even if the first time had been an accident. She was glad he still trusted her with it, although it was neither ugly nor disgusting. It was an eyelid that had been sewn shut, and that was it.

He sat like that on her left, his profile highlighted by the flames, and she stared at him. At his face, at his eye, at the lines that showed that time had passed since they had last been doing this.

And then Ashara stood, startling the man who followed her course around the room with curious interest. “What on Earth are you doing?” At first he could have thought she was fetching glasses and some beverage to somehow celebrate their reunion, but instead, she had grabbed a dagger, a dragon-glass dagger, and some soap. Now she was filling a basin with some water.

She came back to him with her utensils, and he seemed to fear what her intent was. “Let’s make you more presentable, Lord Beric. I shall not go down to dinner with a bear of a man on my arm.”

He smirked. “You’d know all about that, though, _Lady of Bear Island_.” But he leaned into her touch when she started coating his beard with soap, and the smile she gave him was far too warm, far too open to her liking.


	6. A long time ago

  1. **** A long time ago****

* * *

_298 A.C. Somewhere in the Riverlands_

* * *

_Happy birthday to me_, Ashara thought bitterly as she lit a fire for the night. She thought winter might not be that far ahead, seeing as how the days and nights already grew colder. No matter, she had learnt to live with them as well as a wild beast.

She was turning 20 that day. Or any day around that time, to be honest, she hadn’t had access to a calendar in a long time. Maybe she was younger, maybe she was even older. But she knew the year, and the year would mark her 20th year of life.

She had settled camp in the Riverlands on her way back North. She had recently had a lead on the slaver her father had sold poachers to, and this time it seemed genuine. For four years she had roamed Westeros, north and south, west and east, there was virtually no place she hadn’t been in that time. Except perhaps Sunspear. She hadn’t had the courage to pass the gates. And anyway, Dornish territory was far too warm for a Northerner like her.

Ash Snow was well-known in the North. Either seen as a boy or a girl, she was sometimes hired by innkeepers for her hunting talents, in exchange for which she gathered intel and/or coin. She had long since explained the bear crest on her chest as being the sole thing that remained of her father – a squire for a lord on Bear Island, but she herself had been born close to The Twins, or so she was trying to convey.

Her northern accent had long since disappeared too. All that remained of Ashara Mormont, truly, was her armour and the dagger she wore at her hip, one that had belonged to her grandfather. The bow she had had to purchase, her old one having rather quickly broken down thanks to its lack of sturdiness.

Sometimes, when she twirled her blade in her fingers, either preparing to cut her hair short again – she did it every three months or so to keep up the pretence that she was a male, it was more convenient that way – or to clean her nails, she thought about Jeor Mormont and his life at the Wall.

She had once or twice wondered if it wouldn’t be a good idea to go up there for a quick visit – or a long one, the appeal was there. Then she remembered that she was supposedly dead, that she hadn’t seen the old bear since her fourth year on this earth, and that the name Mormont was no longer a pride to be had.

It was maybe better if her Granpy thought her gone. It would hurt less, she supposed, than knowing she was living as a nomad on the roads of Westeros, chasing chimeras.

That she also knew. Her wish to redeem her father was thinner as time passed. She still had no idea if he lived or had died, and on some days it made her wish she’d just go home and sleep through the next five years.

But she had made a vow. She had even broken her skin and bled over a fire for it. She would make sure her father’s name was cleared. Even if she died trying.

* * *

She had overslept. She hated oversleeping.

Oversleeping often meant meeting with unwanted people on the road, and there she was, awakening to the sounds of hooves and songs.

Men, no doubt. Soldiers, too. Only soldiers liked to sing songs of young maidens, and it made her curl her lip up in disgust.

She saw their golden armour before the first man appeared on the path. There were not many, six or seven at the most, and they obviously did not belong to the same houses, as almost each one bore a different crest. The sole archer she could see, a young man her age with dark hair and dark eyes, was the only one to not wear any heavy armour. Only chainmail under a leather tunic.

“Wooooh!” the leader stopped his horse as he spotted her. Of course, they were still quite far from her, and she surely looked to be a boy anyway, but she knew from experience that being cautious didn’t hurt. “Who comes here?”

She sighed and sat up. “A traveller who slept past dawn!” She had mastered the use of a deeper voice, and none of the men seemed to find anything curious about her.

The horses paced forward a little, keeping some distance between the group and her still. Her bow was visible next to her against the log she had chosen as her pillow the night prior, but she didn’t reach for it. For one, because it’d be taken as a threat; for two, because she was quite capable to taking anyone out using only her trusted dagger. She had enough cover to slay one man then hide to slay the others.

“Are you travelling alone, my friend?” Their leader had a deeper voice than anyone she’d known. Her father included. It sounded like warm honey and sunlight, and she instinctively didn’t like someone able to make a shiver run up her spine just by using his voice.

“I am. Which obviously isn’t your case.”

He chuckled – the sound deep, rich, dazzling – and soon his men followed. “We are heading to Riverrun. Can we pass unharmed?”

Her eyes widened. They really thought her a threat, despite her sitting position and her weapon-less appearance? “_Riverrun?_ What business have you there?”

She knew some soldiers from the South had been wreaking havoc there, pillaging, raping, burning down houses. If they were joining the feast, she’d rather make sure seven less bastards breathed air.

“We are to apprehend people who are harming innocent lives over there. By order of Lord Stark, Hand to King Robert Baratheon.”

At that Ash stood, slowly though as to not alarm the men. “Lord Stark? You know him?”

“I do,” the leader said, his horse pacing one step forward. “He gave me the order himself. Do you know him?” There was a lilt in his voice that made his men leer. Of course they didn’t think a lone traveller, obviously not noble-born, could know the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

“I have seen him from afar.” She eyed the group for a moment, then asked “You are not all from the South, though, are you?” She could see a man bearing the crest of the Eyrie – the Vale, Arryn House, whichever made more sense – and another with the sigil of House Reed.

At that the leader came closer still, stopping just a yard or so from her and dismounting. It was a way to show her he was talking to her as an equal, she realised, as his hand never went to his sword.

On his chest she could see a crest she had never encountered before – it looked like a lightning-bolt, two lightning-bolts, something she had never seen prior to then.

But it was the man’s face that made her pause. From afar she had noticed his golden neatly-cropped hair, but nothing could have had her prepared for his blue eyes, a blue that looked surreal, too blue, too visible, too…smiling. He was sporting the stubble of a man on the roads, and the smile he gave her was of a man who knew he was handsome. Not that he was supposed to _know_ she found him handsome.

Handsome and with a voice that could stop a bear from charging: deadly combination.

“My name is Beric Dondarrion, I come from Blackhaven. My friends here are from Highgarden, King’s Landing, the Eyrie, Moat Cailin, take your pick.” He eyed her as if asking her a question.

She stared at him dead-on. “The Twins. I was born at The Twins.”

“And yet you are not a Frey,” he chuckled again and pointed at her chest, noticing her chest-plate. “Did you take that off a soldier you killed?”

She snarled. “My father was sworn to a man from Bear Island.”

One of the men – the archer, she thought from the corner of her eye – laughed. “The lad has some spirit! Maybe he should come with us!”

Lord Beric tutted, his eyes still trained on her in a way that made her skin crawl. “Leave him be. He has the right to refuse getting killed for a man he only ‘saw from afar’.”

Ash glared at him again, which made him smile brighter, which made her frown deeper.

“What’s your name, my friend?” He asked at length.

She pondered for a second. Her pretend name was safe enough, she supposed. “Ash Snow.”

One of the men breathed the usual ‘bastard’ to another – who obviously thought of ‘Waters’ or ‘Sand’ as a bastard’s name – but Lord Beric merely tilted his head to the side. “That’s quite poetic. Ashes are quite visible in the snow; or maybe a snow as grey as ashes… I like it.”

Ash’s brow furrowed. “You like _my name_?”

“I like _you_!” he decided. “So, what say you? Would you accompany us on our Quest? You are heading West, aren’t you?” She barely had time to nod. “Then walk some time with us. We know each other too well by now, some novelty might do us good; and you’ll be safer accompanied, with those bandits roaming not far. You can leave whenever you feel like our paths need to go their own way, I swear it.”

He was good with words, Ashara noticed. He surely was a deadly combination of a man, and she wondered how many women were waiting for him back in Blackhaven. Certainly a lot.

Another man – one clad in red with long hair and a beard – laughed at the look on her face. “The lad does not know if he should trust you, Beric.”

Said Lord huffed. “Nonsense, Thoros! He knows he can! Besides, it looks like our companion knows how to defend himself!” He chuckled again, and nodded to her. “Take your time, Ash Snow.”

She pondered, and stared at the blue-eyed man for long minutes. The other one – Thoros, she thought – was right, she wasn’t sure she could trust him, but she was young, and she hadn’t had company in a while. And these men seemed funny enough. And stupid enough to let her kill them if they ever tried something with her.

She nodded once. “I’ll go as far as Stone Mill.”

“Good for us!” He launched before turning back to his horse and mounting with a grace only noblemen held. She herself had mastered the art of pretending she was low-born, and mounted with as less of that grace as she could muster.

Soon the group of men started riding ahead, and they all passed her, all but one, the red-clad one, who offered her a canteen as he stopped next to her. “Best booze in the country,” he simply said before moving forward.

She shook her head in disbelief. These guys truly were something else. Then she took a sip of the ‘best worst booze in the country’, and followed.

Lord Beric Dondarrion didn’t stop looking back at her that day, and she at him.


	7. A question of genre

  1. **** A question of genre****

* * *

_298 A.C. Somewhere in the Riverlands_

* * *

Travelling with a group of men was something Ashara had not experienced ever since the Tourney of Lannisport. And then again, she had been those men’s better and had been accompanied by her father and septa at the time.

The group she was with then was made up of the most cheerful bunch of lads she had ever stumbled upon. Some were infuriatingly optimistic, thinking they’d be back home faster than anyone could say ‘Riverrun’. She guessed they were wrong.

From what she had gathered here and there for a few weeks, the bastards laying waste to the area were extremely brutal and led by a man whose reputation preceded him everywhere he went: the Mountain. Gregor Clegane. The man who had butchered the princesses and prince of the House Targaryen when Robert Baratheon’s Rebellion struck.

She was also aware that Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr knew of the danger they would face, but didn’t quite care as much as they should have. The former was always seen with a smile on his face, no matter when she looked at him. The latter was always glued to a canteen of ale or stronger stuff, meaning he was very rarely sober.

The name Thoros of Myr could have stirred some memories she had, for her father had told her countless tales of the taking of Pyke, hometown to the Iron Borns, but the red-clad man was looking less like a warrior and more like a…village buffoon to her.

After two days of travelling with that bunch, she already had her favourites among the lot: Anguy, the archer, who was close in age to her and who had a wicked sense of humour; Benji, a tall and broad man ailing from the Vale who cursed worse than a wildling; and the leader himself.

She often found herself watching Beric Dondarrion from the corner of her eye and listening to whatever tale he spun. His golden honeyed voice was enough to make her think that she should not remain too long with that group, on the threat of falling hard for that man.

One evening, she found herself sitting in front of the fire, standing guard. The men had decided that ‘the brooding lad’ was trustworthy enough to watch while they slept, and all were sprawled on the ground, fully-armoured and ready to spring to their feet if she called for aid.

It was a marvel none of them had understood that she was a lass.

Except perhaps one.

“So, why are you really going North?”

Ashara felt a shiver run up her spine as Beric’s voice arose from behind her, but she did not move, let him instead take a seat next to her on a fallen log. His face was highlighted by the fire at which he stared, and he did not seem menacing at all.

“Why do you ask?” she answered, once again camouflaging her feminine voice under stupid pretences.

“Because I can’t find a good enough reason for a high-born lady to travel on her own.”

Ashara froze, her stare locked onto him as her hand instinctively went to her belt and the dagger there. He merely turned to face her, a soft smile on his lips, and raised his hands in peace-offering.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Ash.” The name she had given them sounded foreign in his voice, as if she would have preferred him to use her full patronym.

She gritted her teeth. “What are you talking about?”

“I may not be the cleverest of men, but I am no idiot. That armour did not belong to your father. It was custom-made, for you. That dagger you wield so proudly was obviously made in a very fine steel a mere soldier could not have afforded. Then there is the way you speak.”

She arched a brow. “How do I speak?” She kept her voice deep, trying, maybe stupidly, to retain at least part of the lie.

“You do not speak like a commoner, that’s for sure.” He smiled again, lowering his hands to his lap. “May I know your name? Your real one?”

She shook her head vehemently. “I don’t go by that name anymore, there is no need to speak it.”

“Then may I know why you are here?”

She pondered a moment. From what she had understood of the man, honour was one of the things he held most dear. He could, and would probably, keep her secret unless she wanted to spread the word herself. She sighed. “I am trying to redeem my father’s name. It was thrown in the dirt, and I want it to mean something good again.”

Beric nodded, his eyes still locked onto hers. “I find that extremely brave.”

Ash then smirked. “You told me why you thought I was high-born, but never why you think I’m a woman?”

He chuckled then, the deep sound echoing in her very bones. “Call it intuition? Or perhaps it is the way you avert your eyes sometimes when my men do something especially…manly.” She rolled her eyes and he chuckled again. “I will not tell anyone if you don’t want them to know.”

“I do not mind that part. Although I’d rather do without being assaulted.”

Beric’s brow furrowed. “None of us would do that to you, Ash, you have my word.”

She did not answer. She trusted _his_ word, and she trusted _he_ would not touch her unbidden, but she didn’t trust each and every of the six men accompanying him.

They remained silent until the Lightning Lord sent her to sleep an hour later.

* * *

When they reached Stone Mill a week later, Ashara was almost sad to leave the lively group. They had become some kind of brothers-in-arms, even if they had never had to fight alongside each other. They appreciated her company and her hunting skills, and she liked their stories and their crass humour.

When they reached the crossroads, she stopped her horse and the men carried on, bidding her farewell as they passed.

Anguy gave her another one of his silly jokes, which made her crack a small smile; and Benji grunted while crushing her shoulder under his hand. Thoros offered her one last sip of his brew; and Beric stopped next to her.

She stared at him one last time, thinking that she’d miss his handsome figure now that she would not see it all the time. She was not in love, that was a notion made for stupid babes; but she liked him, and thought she could honestly call him a friend.

All his men had passed them, and he stared at her with a small smile. “I will miss our conversations, Ash.”

“Likewise,” she answered, and for the first time, she dropped the pretence and used her real voice. His eyes widened, as did his smile after a while. He bowed the head as if to leave, but she stopped him with two words. “Ashara Mormont.” He looked back. “My name was Ashara Mormont.”

He bowed the head with that glint in his eyes. “I wish you safe travels, _Lady of Bear Island_.”

And with those words, they parted ways for the first time.


	8. Time for tales

  1. **** Time for tales****

* * *

_305 A.C. Winterfell_

* * *

The whole hall seemed frozen, and it wasn’t entirely due to the current weather. Fires were cracking in the three enormous fireplaces scattered around, and the temperature was by all means correct, and yet, the tension was frigid.

Ashara and Beric had appeared at the door, arms linked as if they had been expected to appear together. Which they hadn’t.

She could see many a person’s eye going to the man next to her and his cleaned-up appearance, and if part of her was proud to have been the cause of it, another part of her disliked the attention greatly. She had never been fond of having dozens of people staring at her like that.

To be honest though, their current situation was one to make folk talk. Beric had surely disappeared from an important debrief or whatever, not being familiar with Winterfell at all, and had reappeared on her arm, having obviously freshened up, his blonde hair cut and tamed by her sure hand, and his stubble no longer a beard. Also, there was the inexistent eye-patch. She knew his eye still made others uncomfortable, but he had not wanted to put it back on, which she had appreciated.

She had never really minded his scars, apart from the first time she truly saw them. After that, he remained the man who had jumped off his horse and trusted her immediately despite the unlikely circumstances of their meeting.

Unsurprisingly, Beric was the first to recover from their audience’s stares. He had been a Lord, after all, once upon a time, and if he did not remember any of it – which she believed – it seemed some part of him still knew how to behave.

He led her to her seat next to her father, whom he bowed to before doing the same to her and heading towards Tormund’s table. Apparently the two had formed a strange brothers-in-arms kind of bond after nearly dying at the Wall.

Jorah was displeased, it was fairly apparent. The look on his face would have scared anyone who knew what it meant, and Ash had the decency to avoid his glare all evening. The food, although frugal in itself – they were rationed, after all, and ate the same food as the common folk – tasted like dirt in expectation of the scolding she’d no doubt receive.

At another table, she could see Davos send her knowing glances and smiles, and not for the first time in her existence, she wished the Onion Knight had been her father instead of the Bear one who was currently stabbing at his piece of bread as if it had been Beric’s functioning eye.

* * *

“How _dare_ ‘e? And how dare _ye_? How could ye be so reckless as to think such behaviour would pass unnotic’d?”

Jorah Mormont was pacing back and forth in his daughter’s room, looking rather like a caged bear. Ashara had taken to sitting by the fire and doing her best to look contrite when her attention was focussed on the little piece of leather that Beric had left on the bedside table earlier – his eye-patch.

“I will no’ see my only daughter shamed by a man like ‘im, I will no’!”

“_A man like him?!_” She could not help herself, although she remained seated despite the urge to stand and glare at the man who had brought her into this life. “And what kind of man do you think he is exactly, _Papa_?”

Jorah glared at her, his eyes flashing with the flames of the fire but not only. He truly was furious. “He ‘as a reputation, Ashara! And despite everythin’ he migh’ ‘ave done for our cause, he remains Lord Beric Dondarrion of Black’aven, notorious gallant-knight.”

Ash snorted, something she had not done in quite a while. It was a manly thing she had started to do when she was on the run, and found it usually went well with a bastardly character. “He is no longer Lord of anything and you know it. Besides, we just entered the hall together is all.”

“And where did ye come from? No one had seen ‘im in ‘ours, Ash!”

She stared at him dead-on. “I don’t know what I find more offending, the fact that you think of my friend as such a man of depravity; or the fact that you think _your daughter_ as being gullible enough to fall into bed with a known-bachelor.”

Jorah paused, visibly realising that she was passionate about this whole thing. She was defending 'her friend’ and her honour without admitting to anything improper. And that, for a Mormont, meant something.

He sighed and passed a tired hand over his face. “Nevertheless, I canno’ let you link yourself to a man old enough to be yer father.”

Ashara’s eyes narrowed. She had never thought of Beric’s age as being impeding for their…whatever their relationship was. Her feelings were there regardless of how many winters and summers he had seen.

A cruel smirk appeared on her lips then. “And that coming from a man who’s in love with a girl younger than his daughter.”

He stared at her, obviously shocked, before he turned to leave the room. He didn’t utter another word.

* * *

The following morning, Ashara found herself standing in the wooden gallery, watching Jon, Gendry and Tormund spar while Brienne and Beric talked and studied their moves. Sometimes the Lady Knight would correct Gendry’s posture and Jon would do the same with Tormund’s, the ginger giant shouting whenever he felt like it that he’d been distracted by the giant beauty nearby. Brienne seemed unimpressed.

Unsurprisingly as always, Ser Davos came to join her and leaned on the railing to watch the men spar with the glint of a proud father in his eyes that made her smirk.

“Wha’?” he asked finally.

She shrugged. “I find it endearing, that’s all. Your tendency to think of them as your boys.”

“Don’ tell them tha’. Neither of them thinks of me as a father.”

“You don’t know that,” she said firmly. “Jon might not, he’s known Ned Stark for a long period of his life after all; but Gendry’s never known his father, and you’re the next best thing.”

“Ye’re a real comfort as always lass.”

“I know.”

They watched for several more moments in silence, until Davos caught sight of Beric watching them, or rather, _her_.

He huffed. “Yer made quite the entrance yesterday wi’ yer Knight.”

“He’s not _my_ Knight and I’d be glad for people to stop pestering me about that. We hadn’t seen each other in a while and talked. That’s all.”

He looked at her so intently that she had to meet his gaze quizzically. “Wha’ exactly is yer ‘istory with ‘im?”

She sighed. “We met several times while I was on the run. I almost joined the Brotherhood without Banners at one point but thought better. I became friends with him rather like one starts liking their new horse: seamlessly.”

“I’m sure ‘e’d like the comparison!” Davos chuckled before directing his gaze towards the Lightning Lord again. “When did ye realise ye were in love wi’ ‘im?”

Ashara thought about denying, as she had done countless times before, but right then, staring at Beric as he sat on a barrel, his face cleaned, his patch nowhere to be seen, and that familiar glint in his eye as he looked at her, she knew there was no denying to be done anymore. She had fallen hook line and sinker, and she’d better start accepting it.

She sighed and leaned on the railing as well. “Nothing ever happened.”

Davos’ eyes snapped to meet hers again. “Not’in’? Are ye serious now?” Upon seeing her lack of reaction, he whistled. “Well well, child, seems like it’s time te do somet’in’ about it!”

She looked at him funnily. “What do you mean?”

“I mean war is comin’, and ye could both die. Screw yer father and other people’s principles. I ‘aven’ met many folks who were in love in my life, so ye’d better take advantage of it!”

She chuckled darkly, then paused, her eyes glazing over as she recalled one particular occurrence several years prior. “Actually, something might have happened once. But I ran.”

Davos rolled his eyes. “Mormonts…” he muttered before clasping a hand over her shoulder. “Get a move lass, before the Night King does!”

And she stared at Beric’s smile, and a gut-wrenching fear took hold of her guts as she thought that, with his Red Priest gone, he might very well die for good this time around…


	9. The scars that we bear

  1. **** The scars that we bear****

* * *

_300 A.C. Somewhere in the Stormlands_

* * *

Ashara lifted the pouch of gold she’d earned from some hunting earlier that week. It was decent, but still not enough to gain her passage to Essos, where her father had been sighted.

It’d been two years. Two years since she first heard his name in conversation. Something about a dragon princess, a Targaryen girl having survived her family’s fall; something about the people who had sworn to protect her; something about Jorah Mormont.

At first she had felt confused. She had heard that he and that whore Lynesse had settled on the Isle of Lys after his demise, so if he had gone down to the Dothraki Sea it could only mean that his marriage to the bitch had been terminated.

And then she felt elated. Finally she had proof that he was still alive and thriving. And possibly trying to find a way back to her. Or to Westeros, more like. He, like everyone else, must have thought her dead, after all.

For a moment after learning that news, Ash had felt like a sixteen-year-old again. She had longed for her father’s embrace and for the easy life she had led back on Bear Island. Then she had remembered who and what she was now. A sellsword, for lack of a better term. She sold her services to those in need of it.

She still didn’t trust many people, especially men, with their prying eyes and hands, and with their thirst for any kind of power, be it the power to make her life miserable.

She was still gauging the amount of gold she still needed to gain for passage when she heard the unmistakeable sounds of clanking steel nearby.

She was being surrounded by armed men.

Reaching for her bow at her back, she only had time to place her fingers on the wood before an arrow whooshed next to her ear and traced a line of blood on her cheek. Great. Another scar to add to the list.

The archer appeared into view, a mop of dark hair and a face hidden by a long-bow she immediately was dazzled by. Those things were hard to wield.

He was no doubt about to fire another arrow when he suddenly tilted the head to the side and she caught sight of a pair of dark eyes. “Blimey, I know that face!” He stepped into the light, and Ash froze.

All around her, seven men exited the bushes, intrigued by the archer’s demeanour. She stared at him dead-on, and realised quite quickly that he was familiar.

Very familiar.

“_Anguy?_”

* * *

Of all the people she thought she’d meet on the roads, Anguy was definitely not one of them. Not that she had forgotten about Beric Dondarrion and his companions, no, the memory of them was sometimes too vivid to her liking; but she had in all honesty thought that they had gone back to their homes after their deed in the Riverlands had been done.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, lad!” Anguy laughed as he approached her horse.

She dismounted and grinned. “It’s not far from the truth, actually, archer.” She had not hidden her voice under masculine tones this time, and he visibly started.

“Blimey, so he was telling the truth after all! You’re not a lad at all, are you?”

Ash tilted her head to the side. She remembered, as clear as day, as Beric told her he’d keep her secret. Had he lied? “Who said that? Not that it’s wrong, for I am indeed not a man, but out of curiosity?”

Anguy let out a loud bark of laughter before he patted her shoulder. “Well now I regret all the crass jokes I made! And just so you know, Thoros kept talking about it after we separated. Kept babbling about how you couldn’t possibly be a guy and blabla and blabla. Didn’t believe the old goat until now! Lord of Light be damned, I was a blind fool!”

Lord of Light? She wondered what that was all about, but chose instead to direct her gaze to the people surrounding her. None of them she recognized from before. Had Anguy joined another band of soldiers after Riverrun?

He seemed to understand her silent questioning, for he sighed. “We lost a lot of people on that blasted battlefield. A lot. Benji, Cadmus, Evan…even Beric for a while.”

“What do you mean ‘for a while’?” Ash had felt something rather unpleasant at the mention of Beric’s demise, however ‘brief’. And she didn’t like that feeling at all.

“Well, you’ll see if you accompany us, _milady_,” he bowed as if mocking her, and she rolled her eyes before crossing her arms on her chest. That was a very womanly thing to do, but she didn’t feel threatened by the group of men, even if one or two of them were eyeing her too greedily to her taste…

“_Stop_ calling me that, my name is still Ash, and I don’t know where I’d be following you or to whom.”

Anguy smiled widely. “Prudence, I like it. Well, darling, maybe you’ve heard of the Brotherhood without Banners? That’s us, and Beric and Thoros are leading us. I can’t reveal where though, and you’ll have to be blindfolded eventually.”

She computed this information carefully and slowly. The Brotherhood without Banners. Unless she had been living under a rock for two years – which she had, in all honesty – she had heard about that group of thugs helping the poor by killing the bullies and criminals. She had not, however, heard that their leaders had been former road-companions of hers.

This was an interesting development.

She smirked. “If you don’t mind me demanding that, Anguy, I’d rather make sure _you’re_ the one blindfolding the lady. I’m not stupid enough not to notice that ‘brotherhood’ implies there are no women in your merry group, and I’m not fond of being groped.”

Anguy threw a harsh glance to his companions, then a softer one to her. “On my honour, Ash, no one will touch you.”

“Then lead the way, archer,” she said as she tugged on her horse’s reins.

* * *

They walked in companionable conversation for about two hours, weaving through trees at a leisure pace. Anguy told Ashara about the Battle of Mummer’s Ford – which had taken place in the Trident and not near Riverrun as she had expected – and the loss they suffered there. Of the hundred men that had gathered to stop Gregor Clegane’s actions, only a handful had survived, and Beric had been stabbed through the chest by a lance before being unwittingly resurrected by Thoros.

That part she had trouble believing. After years on the road, Ashara had stopped believing in the Old Gods she had worshipped in her youth. She had not witnessed any godly deed in all these years – nearly seven – that she’d been travelling, and had difficulties imagining that one or several almighty entities might want the land to be ridden with thieving and murdering scum as it was then.

But Anguy explained that Thoros was a priest of Rh’llor, the Lord of Light, the One True God, and that his faith had permitted Beric to rise from the dead more than once. In fact, if he was telling the truth, Beric had been resurrected no less than five times.

She didn’t believe it, but she wondered what power could Thoros wield to make earthy folk like Anguy and his companions – who had been zealously nodding during his speech – convert to his beliefs.

At one point, Anguy placed a black sack over her head and gently led her forward without ceasing to talk to her, his own way of proving that he was indeed the one touching her back and not one of the other men. He directed her when she needed to lift her feet higher, and though she stumbled once or twice on roots – or rocks, she couldn’t tell the difference – he steered her well enough that once they’d stopped, she was unharmed.

* * *

At long last he removed the sack from over her head, and Ash blinked in the relative light of the place she had been brought to.

It was a cave, dimly lit by several fires if you didn’t count the light of day coming from behind her. It seemed damp, and the walls had a definite reddish hue to them as if they were made of mud. She could see several horses haltered near the entrance, and one man went to place her own mount with the others. In another corner, sacks of provisions lay on a bed of sand to keep them dry; and another corner yet provided bedrolls and a relative intimacy for those who wished to rest. The cave seemed deep enough, and if the firelight dancing on the far walls was any indication, it was occupied to the fullest.

Two figures rose as the group appeared – or rather as her face was revealed. She had no trouble identifying the first, for Thoros was as always clad in red with a canteen in his hand. His eyes seemed amused enough by her presence, but he didn’t say anything and chose to look at his companion.

She had to repress a gasp when she recognized Beric in the face of this stranger. She wondered if it was truly him for a moment, but remembered the glint in his eyes and the mop of blonde hair. That was really the only thing she could identify until he chose to speak. His voice was unmistakeable.

But until then, her eyes danced on the scars he displayed. His neck was a mess, angry marks and bubons of flesh distorting what had once been smooth skin. She could see a long angry scar on one side of his chest, for his shirt was slightly open; but the biggest change was on his face. He had only one eye left, the right one being hidden by an eye-patch that left little to imagination when it came to its use. He had lost it.

He was staring at her curiously, not like someone who was seeing a ghost from the past, but like someone who was receiving a foreign guest.

She feared what it meant.

He turned his one eye to Anguy then, and asked “Who’s this then?”


	10. Remembering

  1. **** Remembering****

* * *

_300 A.C. The Brotherhood’s lair_

* * *

Ashara had already spent three days in the cave when Beric finally decided to talk to her. She had spent these three days alone, pondering on whether or not she should leave. She was close to deciding that indeed she should go, for nothing really kept her rooted somewhere the only man she had ever called ‘friend’ could not remember her.

Thoros had taken upon himself to introduce her – again – to the Lightning Lord. He had called her by her given nickname, Ash Snow, with a smirk as he said he probably was the only person sober enough to have realised she was not a man as she had first claimed to be. Beric did not stir, a sign that he indeed could not remember their first encounter or the fact that he, and not Thoros, had been the first to see past her pretences.

Beric had asked how and when they had met, and had furrowed the brow as if trying to remember. Ash had stared at him dead-on, realising how little of the man she had met two years prior was left in this shell of a man. Whatever had happened to him must have damaged his memory and personality hard enough that he was totally changed.

The Red Priest had realised her confusion the evening of that day. She had been sitting in front of the fire, Anguy delighting her with yet another tale of their adventures, when Thoros had offered her a well-deserved sip of his disgusting booze. Then he had said ‘He’s still the same, deep down. The Lord of Light did not take everything. For example, his appalling sense of humour’. It had not made her smile, but she nodded her thanks all the same.

Anguy and the man sitting next to him – Brandon, ailing from the Vale, apparently – had then started explaining how Beric had died those five times. The first time she already knew: a lance through the chest, courtesy of Gregor Clegane himself. The second time had been a mace to the side of his head, which had left an angry scar and a slight bump on his cranium. Third and fourth times had been a simultaneous hanging and stab through the eye, hence his scar and eye-patch. And fifth time, an arrow to the heart.

She had listened, dazed by such a tale. How could he still be there after all of this?

Thoros, once again, on the other side of the fire, had given the answer to her question. “The Lord of Light brought him back each time I asked him to. But each time he did, something of Beric’s was taken. Nowadays he scarcely remembers anything from before Mummer’s Ford.”

So she had computed all of this, had started believing that such a thing as resurrection was possible, but mourned the Lightning Lord of Blackhaven all the same.

* * *

He came to her when she was the most prepared to leave. He came to her in his leather garb, eye-patch and scars in place, with a look in his gaze that translated curiosity and something like…puzzlement?

He sat next to her while his men buzzed around the cave, purposely neglecting the spot they were in as if to give their leader some privacy.

“Thoros tells me you travelled with us when we were on the road towards Riverrun,” he said simply in his deep baritone. The voice made a shiver run up Ashara’s spine, one she pushed away as being caused by the damp place and not the man at her side.

“I did. For a few weeks you accepted me in your ranks.”

“He also tells me you and I spoke a great deal back then.”

She wished Thoros did not gossip so much. What good would it do to talk of something that Beric could not remember? What good would it do to make him feel like he owed her his companionship when he didn’t?

She didn’t answer, and his brow furrowed. “Have I said something wrong?” he enquired.

This Beric seemed to be as gentlemanly as the old one had been, but perhaps less sure of himself when it came to ladies. She could understand why. The feeble females of court would surely cower away when seeing his scars.

They didn’t bother her. They were part of him, and if she was being honest with herself, she found him even more dashing with them than without.

He caught her staring and his sole blue eye widened as if realising something. “Were we close, milady?”

She chuckled darkly while staring at the dagger she fiddled with on her lap. “I am no Lady, Lord Beric.”

“Once upon a time you must have told me that already. I tend to forget things. Pardon the old man I am.” The lilt in his voice made her look up, and when she saw the curve of his lips, she understood. He was joking!

She let out a surprised huff at that. “Old you are not, Lord Beric. Perhaps you’ve been hit one too many times on the head, however.”

She was conscious that she may have gone too far, but after a pause, he merely threw his head back to laugh loudly and properly, in a shadow of the man he had been two years prior. “I like you, I find, milady.”

“Let’s get this straight once and for all,” she nearly growled, “I am not a Lady. Don’t call me that. Call me Ash.” She caught herself before she said her real and full name, and he seemed to notice, though he didn’t mention it.

“Only if you drop the ‘Lord’ and call me ‘Beric’. I am no longer Lord of anything.”

She wanted to disagree, because he was still called ‘Lightning Lord’ by many of his men, but she nodded instead, and answered “Deal” to which he smiled.

“Good, now that’s settled, Ash, would you care to tell me what you’d been doing in this part of the world when my men stumbled upon you?”

His tone was that of a leader that demanded an answer, one she provided without much thought. Different man or not, it appeared she still trusted Beric Dondarrion of Blackhaven. “I am selling my services to anyone in need of them. I am trying to gather enough funds to journey to Essos.”

“Essos?” he seemed surprised, then his brow furrowed in confusion. “I thought you were looking for your father…” He stopped there, realising his mistake.

Ash smiled softly. “It seems you already remember more than you thought…” Her voice was a whisper, a whisper of hope, perhaps. Although she didn’t know what she was hoping for.

He stared at her, still deep in concentration, before another piece of information seemed to climb to the surface. “You are the Lady of Bear Island. That much I remember.”

“Ashara,” she said in a breathless voice, “my name was Ashara. I gave it to you when we parted ways.”

He smiled, first softly, as he had done that day when she had told him that secret of hers, then more mischievously. “It appears that Thoros was mistaken when he said he’d been the first to realise your gender, then.”

She couldn’t help it: she laughed. “Yes, he was definitely mistaken.”


	11. One step too close

  1. **** One step too close****

* * *

_300 A.C. The Brotherhood’s lair_

* * *

Ashara had spent twelve days in the Brotherhood’s company so far. Twelve days she had spent in agreeable companionship, learning about the true mission the men had given themselves – protect the people from the deeds of the corrupt lords who cared little for peasants and the like.

She was present when a farmer’s widow offered a third of her harvest to Thoros outside the cave, to thank them for saving her husband’s legacy and her entire family from brigands.

She was also present when a lad of fourteen applied to join, impressed by the group’s aura when they had passed the inn where he and a few other street urchins worked for shelter at night.

Every day she was blindfolded when led outside, every time by Anguy, and every day the archer and priest showed her what good they were trying to do in the world. She liked it immensely. She also liked the fact that her closeness to both them and Beric had made her impervious to others’ advances, for the greedy looks had ceased immediately after the first night.

All in all, she was seriously considering joining the Brotherhood.

She should have known that the bliss she felt wouldn’t last.

* * *

That precise day, she had been left to her own devices inside while Anguy and Thoros went in search for game to hunt. She was not needed, and Beric’s conversation appealed to her too much to be avoided.

She found him in one of the farthest cavities, one where a flame always burnt. Thoros had said it was the Lord of Light’s flame, and she guessed it served at their kind of Sept or Weir-Tree. She respected their faith, although she did not share it, not even after all she’d been told about Beric’s resurrections.

He was staring at the flames, and for once, he was not wearing his eye-patch. In the light of the flames, Ashara paused and studied his face, his entire face, and found him dangerously handsome, as he had always been.

When he noticed her, he stood abruptly and reached for the piece of leather to wrap it around his head again, but she stopped him with a simple “No” that made him freeze.

“You do not mind?” he asked, and his deep voice echoed around the cave.

She smiled in the surrounding darkness. “No, I do not. Scars are scars, not monsters.” She rounded the grate where the flames burnt high, and sat on the rock he had been occupying a second prior. After a while, he sat next to her. He seemed more relaxed knowing that his bad eye was the farthest from her, and she started the conversation she had come to share. “Do you intend to stay in here forever?”

Beric shrugged, his gaze going to the flames again before he gestured to them. “Unless the Lord asks us to leave.” She nodded, unwilling to question his beliefs. Thoros had explained that Rh’llor sometimes left messages to his followers, in the flames, and she had often seen him or Beric stare at them until tears fell from their eyes from the bright light and they turned away, disappointed. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugged as well. “I might want to stay a while longer.”

He turned to look at her properly, but she did not focus on the patch of skin that had been sewn together, she focussed instead on the eye that was on her and on the flames mirrored in it. “You might want to?”

There was something in his tone then that made her shiver, not from the cold or the damp, but from something else. She didn’t recognize the feeling, but knew his proximity suddenly wasn’t such a good idea. “I might want to. Someday.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, as if he’d been willing to smile but forced himself not to, and then a voice called from the front of the cave.

Beric stared at her one last time, sighed, and reached for the eye-patch he placed over his closed orbit again before striding off.

Ashara remained in the strange chapel and pondered on the feelings she had just felt. As if she’d been torn between leaning closer to him and standing to run away.

One day she’d put a name onto that feeling. _Longing._

She would then remember that the first time she lay with a man at age twenty, it had been with Beric’s face and voice in mind, and that every time since their first meeting, it was the memory of him that pushed her to seek out physical touches. And that it had probably been the first sign of trouble.

* * *

Thoros and Anguy had brought back with them three people. A tall giant of a man who she could have remembered if she had been paying attention at Lannisport, for he was called Sandor Clegane, and was steered towards a secluded part of the cave that then served as a cell; and two younglings.

The first was a lad of maybe fifteen years of age, broad of shoulders with brown hair and blue eyes; the second was a girl with cropped hair not unlike her own and a fierce look in her eyes.

When Ash appeared, both were surprised to see a woman within the Brotherhood’s ranks.

Thoros, who had obviously been the two’s guide when it came to members of said Brotherhood, looked over at her with that glinting gaze of his. “Ah yes, I see you’ve spotted our Little Miss Sunshine here. Ash Snow, meet our two guests.”

She bowed the head respectfully without a word, and the lad took a pace forward in greeting. “My name’s Gendry milady.”

“I’m no Lady, Gendry, but it is nice meeting you,” she answered without catching a breath. They shook hands, and she decided she liked the boy. He had calloused fingers and was obviously a hard-working lad.

The girl, however, looked like a caged beast, and refused to give a name. Instead, she stalked after Thoros who was exiting the main part of the cave, and her angry tone echoed back at her. Ash raised a brow. Why did the girl want their prisoner dead so badly? At her age, no less!

Gendry sighed upon seeing her surprise. “Arry’s a bit odd. But she has her reasons.”

Ash smiled at the boy. Yes, she liked him. “I believe you, lad, I believe you. Now, you must be hungry. Come, I’ll show you to a good portion of bread.”

* * *

Gendry was a smith’s apprentice, although it wasn’t hard to realise he probably should have owned his own shop by then. His strokes were precise, each blow of the hammer on the anvil spot-on, and as Ash watched him work, she thought he’d be a great addition to the group.

He wasn’t talking much, which pleased her, and so she had naturally volunteered to watch him as he repaired armour and forged weapons, while Thoros and Beric tried to tame the wild girl named Arry.

In-between two spearheads, Gendry turned to her. “Can I ask you something Ash?”

“’Course,” she answered directly before taking another bite of her apple.

“Why is it that you are called ‘Snow’ if you were born near the Twins? Shouldn’t you be called ‘Rivers’?”

She smirked. “And how do you know so much about bastardy, young one?”

He smirked back. “The full name is Gendry Waters.”

“Ah, I see.” She bowed the head in understanding. “Well, no one actually questioned that fact before.” She had to think fast, for indeed, no one had cared about that piece of stupid fact in all the years she had roamed Westeros with the same backstory. “My father was sworn to House Mormont whose bastion is in the North, so I guessed that’s why.”

Gendry hummed, visibly sceptic, but didn’t say anything more.

That is, until he had finished his next spearhead. “Why is it you’re the only woman here?”

Ash let out a laugh. “In the several days you’ve spent here you haven’t spoken as much as these past fifteen minutes!” She stared at him but he was staring back and waiting for her answer. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m special.”

He huffed. “That’s must be it. At least, special to their strange leader, he’s always staring at you as if you’re his property.”

“_I beg your pardon?_” Ash’s eyes were wide, both in surprise and in anger, and the boy held his soiled hands up in an apology.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to offend. I just-well, I don’t know what I thought, really.”

She stood. “I think I’ll ask Thoros to come and stay in your company. I need air and the forge is too hot.” She whirled around and left him with his weapons, not really caring if he grabbed one and threw it at her back.

* * *

In truth she had not appreciated the implications in Gendry’s words.

It meant both that Beric was looking at her often when she was not noticing; and that Gendry had seen it and interpreted it as an emotion of some sort. ‘As if you’re his property’. No, she was no one’s property for sure, but if he was truly looking at her like that, then she was in big trouble.

When she had asked Thoros to go and watch the boy, she went to the cave where most of her things lay and started gathering them in her pack. That is, until that blasted deep voice stopped her mid-way.

“What are you doing?”

She dared not look at him, not with the realisation that she had just made that she would _very much_ like him to look at her as if she belonged to him. “I’m leaving.”

“Why?” There was hurt in that voice, hurt that he truly had no right to feel. After all, she had not been there long, and he did not remember their previous meeting, so her departure should mean nothing to him.

She wondered if he’d forget her again, and thought it a good idea. Until she felt his hand close around her wrist to stop her shoving her cloak in her pack.

“Ashara,” he said, and she had no other choice than to turn around and look at him, “why are you leaving? Is it your father?”

He was so damn handsome. And he was still touching her and standing too close and she couldn’t breathe and soon he’d hear her heart pounding away in her chest, and she needed to leave.

“Yes, it is. I have a lead, and I need to go.”

“_Wait,_” he said as she tried to pass him again. He did not touch her this time, but again, the hurt in his voice made her stop. “Will you come back?”

Ash squeezed her eyes shut and put the pack down before facing him again. “Take it off,” she said on an impulse, pointing at the patch.

Beric’s eye widened at her order, but he complied, and for the second time, she saw him as he was. Broken, flawed, but to die for.

“I need to go, Beric. I need to be away for a while, and I need to make more money for me to find my father.” She stepped forward, closer than she dared to be, for if she reached for him, she was doomed. “Maybe I will come back, maybe I will not.”

“_Come back,_” he breathed. “Come back, Ashara.”

She smiled bitterly. “I’m not sure everyone would agree with me being here. I’d distract the men.”

Beric let out a chuckle that made her shiver with want. She needed to go _now_. “Funny, those are the exact words Thoros used no later than yesternight. He said you were _distracting_ me from my true purpose, from the mission the Lord of Light has given me.”

She met his gaze, and asked in a breath “Was he right?”

“He was right.”

She let out a pained breath, and reached for her pack again. “Goodbye Beric Dondarrion, Lightning Lord of Blackhaven. I pray we see each other again someday.”

He smiled sadly but let her go this time. “Goodbye Ashara Mormont, Lady of Bear Island. I pray you come back to us someday.”

She felt he had been on the verge of saying ‘come back to _me’_, but then chastised herself for being too intoxicated by his proximity, and she whirled around to leave.

This time, no one stopped to blindfold her, and many a man saw her leave with a puzzled expression on their face.


	12. Good goodbyes

  1. **** Good goodbyes****

* * *

_306 A.C. Winterfell_

* * *

The year had gone and another had dawned. No one really noticed within the walls of Winterfell. Word came that Mount Cailin had fallen to the Night King’s army’s dead hands a few days prior. The death toll wasn’t as high as could have been feared, but still, one person was enough of a casualty for King Snow, who decided to move out and face the evil himself.

It had become clear by then that Queen Cersei Lannister would not be sending any troops up North to fight in this war, but instead of a thousand men came one rider, and he was one fighter that they would all need in the days to come. Jaime Lannister, the Queen’s twin brother and lover. He had deserted the Mad Queen, and pledged allegiance to his brother Tyrion and so to Queen Daenerys.

At first they had all been quick to judge and dislike and mistrust, but Lord Tyrion’s words were always on point, and Lady Brienne’s clear affection and respect for the Kingslayer decided his fate in the end.

So it was on one particularly stormy day that King Snow and Queen Dany assembled their banners in the great hall to decide on their next move.

Ash had donned the Mormont armour and was standing, as usual, next to her father, but her eyes kept going to her young cousin Lyanna Mormont, who had not yet been born when she’d left Bear Island and who was now ruling as heir to Maege, who had unfortunately given her life to Robb Stark’s war.

Lyanna was a young cub full of spirit and wisdom, and also filled with quite the amount of sass and stubbornness, which came with the genetics. She had looked over at her kin, nodded at Ash once, and that was it. The most important thing was not, after all, family reunions, but wars to win.

“His plan surely is to circle us,” King Snow said, and his younger brother Bran nodded thoughtfully.

“Yes. I have shielded myself from his greensight, but I can still see that is his intention.”

Queen Daenerys pursed her lips. The thought of one of her children still being used as the Night King’s mount was a raw as ever, and her violet-blue eyes sparked with anger. “I want to be the one to end him.”

“No,” came the sudden reply. All eyes went to Tyrion, who had been, unsurprisingly, the one speaking. “We cannot risk you losing another one. We need Drogon and Rhaegal safe.”

“And what d’ye propose we do, then, Imp?” asked Ser Davos to counter the harsh words the dragon queen had obviously been about to say.

Tyrion smirked at the Onion Knight. “I say Rhaegal needs a rider.” He looked at Daenerys, then pointedly at King Snow who looked very uncomfortable all of a sudden. “We need to divide our forces. So far, my queen, you have used your children all at the same place when striking a heavy blow. This time we need to use them on several fronts. I say you take Drogon North, where the biggest part of that blasted army lay. He’s the biggest dragon and, as we know, quite adept at surviving.”

Dany pursed her lips tighter but nodded. “What of Rhaegal?”

“East,” Tyrion said simply. “I have a feeling the blue bastard will want to strike from the South.” He paused ominously. “Now it’s just a question of who will be the one to take him out.”

Several voices arose to give either their names or the name of the monarch they thought more fitting to this task. Ashara remained silent. In her mind, someone less conspicuous than King Snow or Queen Dany should be the one.

Her eyes went to Arya Stark, who was fiddling with a dagger. A valyrian steel dagger.

“I’ll do it,” the teenager said after silence had returned to the assembly. She did not wait for a comeback answer. “I can take any face I want, including that of a Wight if faces they still have. Besides, I was trained to kill.”

Snow seemed about to cry or to moan, and Ash knew why. Ever since they had been reunited, the two were scarcely seen without the other. They were obviously quite close and the thought of losing her appeared too much for the White Wolf.

“I think Lady Arya is right,” Ser Davos said, “she’d be the less obvious choice. But _where_?”

“Here.” All eyes turned to Beric, who’d been standing apart from most and who was staring at Lightbringer in his hand. “It has to be here.”

“_Our people_ will remain here, Lord Beric, and I don’t want them to die uselessly,” Lady Sansa said, her eyes blazing anger and defiance before the Lightning Lord smiled at her in peace.

Ash closed her eyes, knowing what was coming. “Winterfell can sustain a siege. It has in the past and it is still standing. Your people can take shelter in the castle while our warriors take care of the dead outside.”

“And what will you do with the dead dragon, then?” Tyrion asked quite sarcastically.

Beric shrugged, and ran a hand over his blade. It caught a flame, and all gasped, except Ashara who knew what powers he possessed. “We have valyrian steel, fire, and a good amount of arrows and spearheads made out of dragonglass. I’d say we’ll be alright.”

There was rumour as everyone started talking all at once, and Ashara felt herself hiss before silence returned. King Snow sighed but nodded. “I see your point and I think it’s quite clever. But to lure the Night King here thinking we’ve left the weak behind, we’ll need to take the strongest with us.”

Beric nodded knowingly. “Take who you wish to take, young wolf. I’ll remain whatever your decision is.”

“If that crazy bastard’s stayin’ then so am I!” claimed Sandor Clegane, and Ash’s eyes widened. Since when had those two become friends?

“I’ll stay back as well,” said Ser Davos, “I’m no fighter but I’m not a bad shot.” Jon nodded.

Gendry puffed the chest out. “They won’t suspect a blacksmith to hold his own.”

“Nor will they a maimed Kingslayer,” Ser Jaime said. His offer to stay was not contested, which was appreciable.

No one spoke up again, and Jorah looked down at his daughter in surprise. Perhaps because she had not offered to remain by Beric’s side.

She smiled up at him and placed her right hand on the bear embossed on her chest plate. She’d remain with her own.

Her eyes went to Beric, who met her gaze and smiled proudly but sadly.

Yet again, they’d go their separate ways…

* * *

It was all decided and preparations were made. Lady Sansa coordinated both the siege and the carts for both groups to depart. She and her sister Arya counted each weapon and chose how many was to remain and how many were to leave. In the end, both sisters decided that the arrows would be divided equally and that swords and spears would mostly go with Jon and Dany’s armies.

Ashara had to see the logic behind their choice. Arrows and spears were the most efficient when it came to distance combat, and tar oil and fire would all rain on the Wights once they got too close. If by any turn of fate they managed to breach the walls, then close-combat was inevitable, and for that, daggers were more effective than swords.

Arya started training those of the Northerners who wished to join in the fight if necessary. It was strange seeing the small and frail girl wield weapons with such ease, and when Ashara stumbled upon such a scene, she’d remember the wounded child whose path she had briefly crossed so many years prior.

She herself was helping where she could. Her father had tried to make her stay more than once, using the excuse that she was a better archer than swordswoman, but she wouldn’t bulge and she convinced Queen Daenerys that a few archers would not be surplus on either party. The silver-haired woman agreed and added more arrows to the list of things to be forged in utter haste.

Gendry was not seen out of his forge for days.

Neither was Ser Davos who had decided to help the lad.

It took two weeks and four days to prepare, and at last, the last night before departure rose, and time seemed to slow as families were gathering before they were torn apart, as friends shared one last pint, as lovers shared one last embrace.

* * *

Beric found Ashara in her room and invited himself in as usual.

He found her sitting in front of the fire, her gaze locked to the flames as if she was trying to see something, perhaps a message from the elusive Rh’llor she had heard so much about. She wondered if she could perhaps see what would become of her and those she cared about once the War truly struck.

She guessed very few of them would come back alive…

“Can I sit with you?” he asked and she didn’t even answer, didn’t need to. As if she’d ever ask him to leave.

Once again he had shed the horrendous eye-patch, but his face was creased with worry, something Ash had never truly seen on his face, at least correlated to an impeding battle.

She placed a knowing hand on his. “Why do you worry, Beric? Is it because Thoros is dead?” She implied by that that he was living his last life, that without a priest, he couldn’t possibly come back from the dead ever again, but he shook his head, which she had anticipated.

“I care little for my own life. I have already outlived too many of my friends. Ash, I just-” he paused, “I just…don’t want to see _you_ go as well. You’re the last person I’ve got.”

She squeezed his fingers, suddenly surprised and shattered by the vulnerability in his voice. This was unusual. “Maybe it is my time, Beric. All I know is I can’t stay back. I have to fight as I’ve always done.”

Maybe he had been about to ask her to stay in Winterfell, but she saw in his eye the way he realised she would not leave her father, not after a decade of trying to find him. “I just wished I could give my last flame for you.”

The way he said those words, the way he was looking at her, it all reminded her of what she had run away from all those years ago, and all she had decided to sacrifice because she had been too afraid.

She had been a distraction, he’d constantly said. She was distracting him from his mission and from the Lord of Light. And yet, fate seemed to wish them to find each other over and over again, only to separate them almost immediately after.

She sighed. “Do not. Do not sacrifice yourself for me, Beric; I could not live with it.” She took his hand in both hers this time, leaning in as she did. “If we both die, we’ll find each other again in whatever is after. But don’t die for me, I beg you.”

There were tears in her eyes as she realised she was trying to say goodbye and to imagine a world where he did not exist anymore. It hurt too much, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

He placed his second hand on top of hers, and she felt him lean in one second before he touched her forehead to his in a gesture that was unexpected, intimate, and yet not enough so. “I could not live with the idea of you being dead either, Ashara Mormont. You have edged yourself in my life far too deep for it…”

She gasped with emotion, but neither moved from their current position, and the heat provided by the flames dried Ashara’s tears while Beric soothed her by tracing circles on her hand with his calloused thumb.

She _loved_ him, Gods, did she _love_ him…

But she could not _have_ him, and that was fine. At least she knew no one else would either…

“Will you stay with me tonight?” she finally asked. “I will not be able to sleep I think.” In another time, had she been talking to someone else, those words would have had another meaning. But right then and there, all she asked for was his company and the warmth of his gaze on her as they talked.

“_Always,_” he answered in a murmur, and they remained there in front of the fire until dawn arose and peace was no more…


	13. Cowardice

  1. **** Cowardice****

* * *

_302 A.C. Somewhere North_

* * *

Blasted arrow, Ashara seethed as she bandaged the fresh wound on her shoulder. She had just come face to face with a band of Lannister soldiers bent on killing and raping – whichever order they preferred – the sole riders on the roads. Regardless of their sex.

She had dispatched them with difficulty, but had managed it. There had only been four of them and she was a skilled archer as well as a skilled dagger-wielder, but one of the bastards had still managed to catch her unaware and strike her with an arrow.

Luckily enough, he hadn’t been a good shot, and instead of landing in the back of her neck, the shaft had plunged into her left biceps, and the arrowhead had stuck right out of the other side. The pain had been excruciating, but Ashara had still been able to throw a dagger that landed straight into the guy’s eye, and a threat there was no more.

Now all that mattered was that the wound did not get infected, and that was easier said than done. She had little supplies left, had intended to stop in some inn or other to buy herbs and what nots to keep her going till she reached Gulltown. From there, she’d finally be able to sail to Essos to find her father.

The prospect was as tantalizing as it had been for eight years. Finding her father again, being with him again and forever after, was something she had never truly considered to be possible. But now that prospect was getting more and more palpable, and she did not know if she needed to be cautious – because very little good things happened on this Earth – or ecstatic.

* * *

She neared a small stream and her horse whinnied gently to satisfy its thirst. She patted the beast’s side and approached the river with care. Sensing that she was not the only one seeking out fresh water, Ashara carefully took her bow, wincing when bending it proved too much for her injury. She hissed when she felt the freshly closed flesh reopen, and a trickle of blood run down the side of her arm.

So much for taking care of that wound properly.

There were several people ahead of her, perhaps ten yards or so away. They were laughing and jesting, she realised, and she immediately thought about other Lannister soldiers. But she had gotten closer and closer to the Vale by then, and the Vale was held by Lord Robyn Arryn, and he was not loyal to the Baratheon King – whichever was by then on the throne.

Carefully, Ashara dismounted and approached the stream. Her eyes widened when she realised that no banner was floating above the group sat around a cosy fire, and the sound of a fiddle brought her back to sometime prior, in a cave.

She sighed. She should not feel regrets now. Beric and his men had left the cave at one point, and it was fine. It all had been madness anyway, going back there as if expecting them to still occupy the damp space. They had forgotten about her, and that was fine.

But part of her felt like this group of men had to be familiar, and she got closer still till a voice she knew very well drawled close by. “Well well well, look what the bear dragged in.”

She hissed in annoyance and lowered her bow, though she did not face the man right away. “Those jokes are quickly getting old, Thoros.”

He chuckled and she turned to face him. He hadn’t changed during the past year, not at all. And he was still clutching that blasted canteen of his, which he offered her as usual.

She shook her head and pushed the item back towards its owner. “I’m not here to drink.”

“I do wonder what you’re here for,” he said, “because unless you’ve tracked us down, there was little chance that you’d find us again.”

“I’m heading to Gulltown,” she answered truthfully, knowing that she had never really been in any danger when it came to the Brotherhood. “And from there on, Essos.”

“Essos?” The blonde man raised a brow. Apparently Beric had still not spilled her secrets to his closest friend. It wasn’t entirely surprising, though she still was caught unaware.

“I’ve got family there.”

“Ah, I see…” he said, though it looked obvious that he didn’t see anything. “Well, I guess you could join us for supper, then, Miss Snow. Someone will be very happy to see you.”

He said it with a hint of annoyance, and Ash followed him, gently pulling her horse with her as she went, wondering why.

* * *

The group they joined was far less populated than it had been a year prior. A mere dozen men sat there around the fire, and although there were familiar faces, there also were obvious missing people. Anguy, for one, and Ash automatically thought the worst had happened.

Beric, obviously, was sitting apart from the rest, as had always been his way. He did not bulge until Thoros called a loud “Look who I’ve found lurking about! It’s our Little Miss Sunshine!”

Ashara threw a weak punch in his shoulder, to which he merely smirked, and looked over as the Lightning Lord rose to his feet, his eye glinting in the evening light and in probable surprise.

“Ash?”

She forced a smile on her lips, although she felt like all her muscles had frozen upon seeing him. “Hello Beric. I hope I’m not interrupting a war council.”

He stared at her, still shocked to see her, and then smiled before smirking and adding “If we were Thoros would have thrown you in the river, and believe me, water’s quite cold.” He gestured her to sit, which she did, and then conversations started again as if she had never left the cave or the Brotherhood.

Beric asked one or two questions, but mostly, he stared at her listening, as if he still could not fathom she was there at all.

When they called curfew, Ash unsurprisingly offered to keep first watch, and Beric unsurprisingly joined her on the rock she had chosen which stood a bit away from the sleeping men.

She could see Thoros turning over and over, and smirked. He had probably not drunk enough to sleep peacefully.

“Of all the people we could have met on the road, it had to be you,” she heard before Beric flopped down next to her.

“I know,” she immediately answered back, “it is like Fate is bringing us together.”

“And apart,” he added, “Thoros told me you are leaving Westeros. Have you finally found your father?”

She nodded. “He is somewhere called Meereen in Slaver’s Bay. I finally have enough coin to buy safe passage to Braavos and from then on I’ll find a way to him, I’m certain of it.”

“I hope you do,” Beric said in a soft voice.

It forced her to look at him and in all the months they’d been apart, she had never stopped picturing his handsome features at night. Her memory did him poor justice though. “Will you take it off for me?” she asked in a whisper.

His brow rose, then he reached for his eye-patch and removed it. The moon reflected on his face made his wrinkles appear more prominent, but damn him, he was still as dashing as ever.

She smiled. “I gather you have not died since we last met, or you’d have forgotten me again.”

Beric smiled back, albeit sadly. “As a matter of fact, the day after you left, I _did_ die.” Upon seeing her eyes widen, he carried on. “I called a trial by combat to judge Sandor Clegane, and he beat me, driving his sword through my shoulder and side. I was cut down like a pig,” he chuckled as if it was funny, which it wasn’t. “Thoros brought me back, again. But I did not forget you this time. I doubt I will ever again.”

Their eyes met and Ashara felt warm despite the frost of winter settling in on the land. “I am glad your Lord brought you back,” she just said, and they sat beside each other in silence for the rest of her watch.

* * *

The Brotherhood, flanked by Ashara, decided to leave the following morning. They’d keep following the stream north, without any real intended destination, as far as the Brotherhood was concerned. Ashara still had some miles to cover before she’d reach the Vale, so she decided to travel with the group again.

Her arm pained her awfully often, and on the second day, Beric noticed, calling the healer of their makeshift group to help her. The wound needed fresh stitches, but at least it wasn’t infected.

When she enquired on Anguy’s location, Thoros answered with a roll of eyes that the lad had found himself a girl and that he’d left three months prior to marry her in Lannisport.

“I am sorry, Miss Snow, but your lot is proving to be quite the distraction,” he’d added while looking over at Beric. The Lightning Lord looked away, and Ash felt herself fight a blush.

Since when had she turned into a helpless girl again?

* * *

It proved to be extremely difficult to think about leaving the men behind. Just as it had done a year prior. Ash had grown attached to the mismatched band of warriors, unsurprisingly, and felt almost at home within their midst.

Of course, there also was the matter of Beric Dondarrion, who she was close to renaming ‘Bane of Her Existence’. He plagued her almost every thought and dreams, and when he graced her with his conversation, she felt her heart swell in her chest as if she hadn’t been on the run for the best part of ten years.

Ash was no idiot, she had by then understood that her feelings for the handsome Lord had turned into something stupid people called ‘love’, but she was not ready to acknowledge or to do anything about it. Whether she was afraid of rejection or of the pain separation would bring her again, that she didn’t know.

All she knew was that one evening, about four days away from Gulltown, she found herself staring at a scene she would never be able to shake off her mind ever again.

She had been in search of a stream or river nearby to clean herself up a bit, not wishing to stink like the devil when she’d seek out a merchant to take her to Braavos. A man called Derin had pointed in the general direction of West of their makeshift camp, and she had followed, her sword in hand just in case.

There was indeed a stream nearby, calmly running through a patch of woods. And in the middle of the stream, water to his waist, was Beric Dondarrion.

Ash froze as the edge of the water, unable to look away. He had his back to her, fortunately, but his obvious naked state – his clothes were scattered not far from her, she could see – did funny things to her, and suddenly, the idea of immerging herself in cold water was more enticing, albeit for a whole other reason than hygiene.

Beric’s back was littered with scars, some thinner than others, including a very angry one that ran from his left shoulder to his hip, and which she understood was the remnant of the blow dealt by the Hound. Ash recognized some scars that mirrored her own, until she realised that Beric had noticed her presence.

She couldn’t help herself: she whirled around with a loud and squeaky ‘Sorry!’ and felt the tell-tale signs of a deep blush rising on her cheeks as she heard splashing and movement behind her.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, I was done anyway.” There was something in his voice, something teasing, but also vulnerable, that Ashara could not place. She forced herself not to look back to question him, and waited until she heard the unmistakeable sound of breeches being secured over one’s hips.

When she turned around again, Beric was still half-naked, and dripping water everywhere, and it did nothing to soothe Ash’s sudden rush of desire. The sight of his strong chest and that expanded patch of skin that he always taunted her with, made her want to just pounce on him. But again, fear of rejection forced her to back off.

Unfortunately for her, Beric had seen the flash of desire go through her steely gaze, and his sole eye had widened upon realising that she wanted him. Before she could leave and go back to camp, he had wrapped his hand around her wrist and forced her to meet his gaze, his wet body standing far too close to her.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked in an unsure voice. “Why are you _always_ looking at me like that?”

Ash wanted to scream, to deny everything, to deny that surge of affection that she felt whenever he was near, because it was wrong, doomed, and dangerous. But instead, she decided that maybe, she owed him a bit of truth. “Because you are you. And because you are too handsome for your own good.”

He stared at her, his hand still secured tightly around her wrist, and his blue eye bore into her like a pointy dagger. “My scars-“

“Do not define you, as I’ve told you countless times before.” Ash sighed. “I can’t explain it further than that, Beric. I just…I feel drawn to you and seeing you like this…” she gulped and tried to look anywhere else than his wet chest-hair, “I am weak. Forgive me.”

She made to pull herself free from his grasp and retreat, but Beric was stronger, and before she had the time to register it, he brought his warm lips over hers.

Ash was stunned. So stunned that her eyes remained opened for the longest time before she finally understood that the man she had been pining after for years was actually kissing her. It took her another second to kiss him back, and another second to moan like a teenager while she pressed herself against him, the water still soaking him imprinting itself on her tunic.

Beric was stunned by her response too, if the noises he made were any indication. While he wrapped his arms around her, Ash took his face in-between her hands and touched each inch she could reach while not breaking their kiss, which grew in intensity as she finally let go of the fear that had gripped her for so long.

When their tongues met, Ashara felt like she would soon burst with desire, the ache between her legs burning stronger than any time before. She wanted that man like she needed air to breathe. If she didn’t have Beric Dondarrion, she’d die, she knew it.

* * *

But then, as soon as she made the decision to pin him to a tree and take whatever she needed, Ash remembered that soon, she’d have to leave him again. Her mission had not been fulfilled yet, her oath was not broken, and her father still awaited her in Meereen.

_She’d have to leave Beric again._

So what was the point of loving him?

As suddenly as it came, the frenzy drew to a stop and Ash let go of Beric, who stared at her for a long moment, eye widened, lips swollen. He looked ravishing, and yet, as the gentleman he never ceased to be, he hadn’t pushed her any step of the way.

His gaze turned sad when he seemed to understand why she had stopped. And yet, instead of the hurt she expected to see, there was understanding in that gaze, as well as some determination of his own.

“I am sorry,” he said, “I shouldn’t have.”

Ash shook her head. “No, I am the one who should be sorry. I have been acting like a child lately, and you obviously didn’t want to-“

“Ashara,” he interrupted her, his warm hand again going to her arm, “I wanted to kiss you too. I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time now.”

That sole piece of information could have made Ash’s heart burst with joy, but she understood, perhaps better than ever before, that it belied something else, deeper, than just want.

So the next words Beric uttered didn’t come as a surprise at all. “We can’t, Ash. You know we can’t.”

She nodded, eyes sad and heart breaking. “I know. You have your mission to your Lord; I have my oath to my father.”

“Not only that,” he said, making her stare at his lovely face once again. “I am old enough to be your father, or not far off. And I’m not fully me. Not anymore.”

Ash stepped forward, nullifying the distance that had grown between them not only physically but also emotionally. “I don’t care about any of that and you know it. Yes, I already felt something when we first met, but the man I truly care about is you, as you are now.” This was getting far too sappy for her taste, and Ashara Mormont hated sentiment with a passion, so she concluded with a “Maybe in another time, we could have been happy together.”

“Maybe,” he answered, a small smile on his lips. “I wish you all the luck in the world, Ashara Mormont, Lady of Bear Island.”

She didn’t ask him how he’d guessed she’d be leaving him again after that, immediately after that, but she thought that he knew her better than most people she had met during her life, and knew her habit to flee when people were getting too close to comfort.

Beric Dondarrion would be her doom, and he knew it. So he willingly let her go.

And she left.


	14. One step forward, two steps backwards

  1. **** One step forward, two steps backwards****

* * *

_302 A.C. Braavos_

* * *

Ashara didn’t know if she liked the city of Braavos. It was too sunny, too loud, too crowded. People wore strange clothes and spoke all kinds of languages, and she felt like a fish out of water.

Anyone she spoke to for information about her father recognized her as a Northerner from Westeros, and apparently that meant she was rough, ill-tempered, and basically as close to being considered a wild beast as could be.

Several times she had been refused entry to an inn because of her roughened attire. Several times she had had to pay for a warm bed in a brothel; and subsequently had to fend off the several whores – male and female alike – that tried to rid her of her precious coin.

She wasn’t any closer to finding Jorah Mormont than she had been on Westeros, and the old continent had that advantage that it was familiar and safe-ish for someone who had travelled it North to South and East to West. She knew next to nothing about Essos. Including the distance between Braavos and Meereen, the last known location of her dear father.

Why had she come there at all?

* * *

_305 A.C. Dragonstone_

* * *

The decision had been easy to make. After three years of wandering and missing her father by a hairbreadth, Ashara had decided to follow her intuition and, instead of trying to find him directly, trying to find the next best thing, Daenerys Targaryen.

After three years of gathering bits and pieces of what Jorah had been up to when leaving Bear Island, she had understood his motives better.

Somewhere along the way, her father had apparently fallen in love with the dragon girl, and followed her around like a Knight in shining armour. There even was a travelling theatre that had written a play about ‘The Loves of the Bear Knight and the Dragon Queen’.

Sometimes it made Ashara laugh to think of her father loving a girl younger than his own daughter, when Beric had used their age difference as an obstacle. It clearly wasn’t one everywhere.

The thought of Beric Dondarrion often brought her to tears, nowadays. Regrets were the warrior’s worst enemy, and she had plenty of those. She often wondered what would have happened if she had stayed with the Brotherhood four years prior, when she had first felt the sting of love around a fire in a cave. She even more often wondered what would have happened if she had stayed with Beric three years prior instead of running away like a thief in the night, his scent still imprinted on her tunic.

For days on end she had found herself sniffing that same tunic, trying to recognize his scent among the countless others that littered the cloth. After a while, she had decided that it hurt too much to dwell on the past, and had forced herself to stop thinking about him.

What ifs would kill her, in the end, she was almost certain of it.

* * *

Upon hearing that Daenerys Targaryen had secured her passage to Westeros and the island she was born on, Dragonstone, Ashara had pestered merchants, fishermen and smugglers alike to carry her all the way from Pentos to the uninviting land.

It hadn’t been easy, she had been robbed of the remaining coin she owned, but there she finally was, staring at a piece of rock and knowing she’d finally have some answers, after ten painful years.

She didn’t know if her father would be there. Rumour had it he hadn’t been seen with Daenerys for a while now, but she couldn’t help but hope. She also wondered if he’d recognize her, with her short cropped hair – and the few strands of grey that had already appeared in her dark brown locks – and scars. One in particular, that she had gained after working as a sellsword in Braavos and almost getting killed, now split her face in two, angrily running from her left temple to her nose, showing its jagged face on her cheek and making her look frightful.

Ashara Mormont now looked more like a she-bear than she had ever done.

* * *

She had never seen Unsullied before, but didn’t like them, that was official. Their way of handling oneself roughly and divesting them of weapons was not to her taste, but at last, after a long and hard climb up the thousand stairs leading to the keep, Ash found herself in a huge hall, facing what looked like a throne made of stone pikes.

Upon it was seated a young woman with striking silver hair and purple eyes. She was stunning, and Ash understood all at once why her father would fall in love with her. She exuded power, as well as vulnerability, and it made one want to protect her.

One Unsullied, who was standing close to Daenerys, quickly conversed with one of Ash’s guards before addressing the Queen, who kept her eyes trailed on Ash all the while.

“Khaleesi, this woman was found on the beach. A boat brought her here. She gave no name and no purpose.”

The Queen – what was a Khaleesi? – stood, and while she still remained on the stairs facing Ash, and keeping the impression of superiority intact, her features were more curious than severe.

“Who are you? You seem somewhat familiar…”

Ash raised her gaze and stood straighter, still hesitating between keeping her cover and telling the truth. But then again, if her father _was_ there, keeping the pretence perhaps wasn’t the best idea. “My name is Ashara Mormont. I am the only daughter of Jorah Mormont and Lysa Glover, his first wife. I am here to find my father.”

It was then she noticed the presence of a small man clad in brown and red clothes, the pin of a hand on his jerkin. He too sported an angry scar on his face, and his blonde hair was almost as white as his Queen’s.

“Jorah Mormont’s daughter?” He got closer, until Ash remembered his name from when she had been a child, innocent and bored. Tyrion Lannister. “She died years ago!”

“As you can see, Imp,” she deliberately used his nickname to signify she knew him, or at least had seen him from a distance before, “I am not. Or maybe I am, for I’m no longer the girl I once was.”

He got closer still, and Daenerys followed his advance with a furrowed brow. “How could it be?”

“When my father was accused of trading with slavers, I left Bear Island to find him, and proof that he was innocent. It took me ten years, but here I am.”

By then the Hand of the Queen was standing right in front of her, his hazel-green eyes boring into hers, trying to recognize something familiar perhaps. “Incredible.” He looked at his Queen. “She looks like him, don’t you think?”

Daenerys got closer as well, perhaps trusting her Hand’s judgement. Her purple eyes widened when she stared at Ashara from up close. “She does.”

“Khaleesi,” came the Unsullied’s voice again, thick with a foreign accent, “we cannot trust that woman. Even if she is the daughter of Jorah the Andal, he is not here.”

Ashara felt a pang of disappointment – and fear – rush through her. Had her ten years of wandering truly been for naught?

Tyrion apparently noticed that, for he smirked at her. “I think we can trust her. She is like her father: unable to hide her emotions.” Then, facing her again, “You expected to find him here, did you not?” She nodded once. “Unfortunately, he is on a mission for his Queen. We hope that he’ll return to her promptly.”

Daenerys stared at her again, lips pursed, until she seemingly took a decision. “Missandei, see to it that Lady Mormont is prepared a room and a bath. Grey Worm, keep her weapons for now. If you earn my trust,” she added while addressing Ash directly, “you will have them back.”

Ash nodded and bowed the head slightly. “I would expect nothing less, Your Grace.”

* * *

It was another month until the emissaries from the North arrived.

Ash remembered Jon Snow from her few meetings with Robb Stark, who he always shadowed, but she didn’t remember him as a striking and charismatic man, still a bit unsure about his claim to Winterfell, apparently, but visibly a good man.

His Hand, one Davos Seaworth, appeared to be much more interesting, though.

“Ha, another lady who’s not a lady! The Targaryen Queen certainly knows ‘ow to surround ‘erself!” The accent was foreign, perhaps from King’s Landing – or rather it’s less amenable neighbourhoods – and the tone was friendly, teasing almost, which stopped Ashara from unsheathing her sword and pointing it at the intruder.

She had been enjoying quite the nice time in the sun, as it were.

When she turned to see who had interrupted her time, she found a tall, middle-aged man with a kind bearded face and welcoming smile. He looked to be trouble, but in another way than the plain ‘I’m going to stick my blade into you’ – literally or not – kind of thing.

“And who are _you_ then?” she almost barked, making the man chuckle.

“I knew women from the North were unforgivin’, bu’ I ‘ad yet to meet one as fierce as you! The bear seems like a too gen’le beast to qualify such a spirit! Maybe you shoul’ change for a mount’n lion!”

Ashara raised a brow at this unknown man, but soon decided she liked him. Or at least his demeanour. “I’d still like to know who you are, Ser.”

“Davos Seaworth, at yer service,” he bowed the head, hands still on his back, glint still in his gaze. “Hand to King Snow of Winterfell.”

Ash smirked herself. “I’d heard of Jon Snow’s rise to power, but it’s still hard to see him as anything else than the boy who followed his brother around.” Realising her mistake – she had gotten too used to being Ashara Mormont again these past few weeks – she added a quick “Or so I heard” that didn’t solve anything.

“If I may say so,” Seaworth said while standing next to her on the battlements, “yer cousin is very different from yourself, Miss Mormon’.”

Ashara didn’t know what surprised her the most: his use of ‘Miss’ instead of the ‘Lady’ everyone still pestered her with; his knowledge of who she was; or his admission that he had met Lyanna. Maybe all three surprised her too much.

“So you have met her?”

“Several times. Delightful li’le thing. Frightful even. But not in the same way as ye. Yer just,” he winked at her, “too used to swing a blade instead of wor’s.”

And just like that, in a couple of minutes and a very pleasant banter, Davos Seaworth became Ashara Mormont’s favoured person on Dragonstone.


	15. Burying the past

  1. **** Burying the past****

* * *

_306 A.C. Somewhere North_

* * *

Ashara panted, grey-green eyes dancing around her to try and find some ally she could save. The dead were everywhere, surrounding the few soldiers that still stood, their ugly groans and hisses filling the air with a foul scent.

Their plan had worked so far. The Army of the Dead had been lured away from Winterfell and its precious inhabitants. Still, the Walkers were not defeated, wreaking havoc and death everywhere they went.

One White Walker had been struck down so far – and Ash didn’t remember who had been the one to kill it – but only a small part of the army had fallen with it.

The giants were the worst, she quickly gathered. Their skin was impenetrable, and to set fire to it, one would need to get very _very_ close. Often too close to dare hope of coming back alive.

Once the Night King had come upon his dead dragon, raising his hands and the dead at the same time. Those who had once fought for Daenerys and Jon then found themselves standing, eyes a sickly blue, drawing their swords on their former brothers-in-arms.

Ashara had seen several soldiers fall to the hand of their undead friends, unable to end their lives. She did not thrive on such sentiments. She killed, whirling around like a bloodlusting beast, her valyrian dagger itching to bury itself in bone and rotting flesh.

Some time prior, Dany and Drogon had lured the Night King away, back to Winterfell where, hopefully, he’d soon be defeated. All Ash hoped for, was that Dany was not sacrificed in the process. Not because she liked the Queen particularly – although the pain her death would bring to Jorah was enough to pain her too – but because then the Enemy would certainly come back to the main battle, and therefore not be killed.

* * *

She could not count how long she had been fighting for. She was covered in mud, blood and grime, her arms bled in several places, the bear on her chest was bloody and punched in over her left breast – it was hard to breathe sometimes, but perhaps it merely was a broken rib – but she kept on fighting, high on adrenaline and the wish to at least know what the outcome of this folly would be.

Ashara had lost sight of her father in the first minutes of combat, but had not wished to worry about his fate until all things died out. Too scared that his fall would make her lose her mind – and life.

She had seen Grey Worm fall, and it was enough as it was.

The Unsullied she had liked. In the end.

* * *

Finally a timid ray of sunshine pierced the white sky, and its light shone on the plains, highlighting the fighters and who was still standing. Only two dozen soldiers from the North still fought, tiring from both exhaustion and blood-loss. The undead were still far too numerous.

A screech then made Ash look up – and she was lucky that no Wight was near her, because she would have been struck down for her distraction – and she almost let out a cry of relief when she saw the dark scales of Drogon approach at great speed, his mother’s white hair whizzing in the air behind him.

The huge beast swooped down, and his fire burned down several dozen undead, their bones cracking as they melted into nothingness.

Ash still had to defend herself trying to re-join the few who were still breathing, and then, all of a sudden…silence.

All the Wights fell dead for good, some even disappearing into a cloud of smoke.

They had won.

* * *

There, almost too far for her to see, Ashara could make out the figure of a lone warrior, standing in front of a landing dragon. Daenerys slid down Drogon’s side and threw herself in the warrior’s arms, and although their embrace remained platonic, it was obvious they were both happy to see the other alive.

Jorah Mormont yet lived.

It brought a smile to his daughter’s lips.

And she remembered the day they were reunited by fate, finally.

* * *

_305 A.C. Dragonstone_

* * *

Ashara had been crossing blades with Grey Worm for the best part of an hour. The Unsullied was more proficient with a spear himself, but he was a great opponent, and she needed the practice anyway.

A few days prior, Queen Daenerys had accepted to give her back her weapons, not seeing the threat she could pose. So far, Ash had managed to practice her aim with her bow – although she’d soon need another one, as that one was getting old – and throwing knives. Her weakness, always and forever, the long sword.

“Toroko Nodo!” came the call as Grey Worm was once again gaining the upper hand on the Northern woman.

She growled both in frustration at having lost again and at being interrupted and watched as the younger man joined a fellow Unsullied who told him a maximum of five words before retreating to the Keep.

Grey Worm’s dark eyes turned to Ashara, and she felt like whatever had been said concerned her.

A second later, he announced “Your father is back, Ashara the Andal.”

Her heart stopped beating for a few painful seconds. Almost faltering on her two feet, she gasped twice before regaining her composure and nodding once at the man, following him back in, then out, as the Queen and her new ally King Snow were talking at the edge of the cliff.

As she took the flight of stairs in the windy weather, Ashara could see, past the wisps of her own growing hair, the white head of Daenerys and dark one of Jon, both clad in heavy cloaks to protect them from the cold damp of the sea. Facing them, on his knees, was a man clad in grey and beige.

Ash stopped walking when the man stood up, and she could see him whole. When she had last seen him, he had been slightly taller – or maybe she remembered him better from her childhood days. However, there was no mistaking the shade of his hair – bronze and blonde – and the strong line of his jaw.

She longed to jump into his arms like the child she suddenly found herself feeling like, but Ashara knew that she couldn’t. Her reputation would be shattered. And she didn’t want to appear weak to anyone’s eyes, ally or foe.

In the wind carrying over to her, Ash could hear Daenerys’ welcome of her old friend and counsellor, happy to see him unharmed – and cured, what was that about? – before she announced that someone was there that longed to see him.

Jorah’s deep voice carried to his daughter as he asked “Who might that be, Khaleesi?” just before Jon noticed her standing not far.

With a jut of his chin, he made the older man look over his shoulder, and his brow furrowed when he saw the sole figure standing upon the grass, short brown hair and worn out armour. She was scarred, she was bulkier than when they had last seen each other, but still, when Jorah got closer and met her eyes, surprise and happiness were the sole emotions that registered on his face.

“Ashara?”

Without meaning to, she let out a sob and a nod, and before he encompassed her in his arms, she wiped angrily at the tears of relief that had sprung to her eyes. Finally she had found her Papa. Finally the Mormonts were reunited. Finally.

_Finally._

Her oath was fulfilled.


	16. No more fleeing

  1. **** Not more fleeing****

* * *

_306 A.C. Somewhere North_

* * *

Dany’s remaining army had soon built a makeshift camp to heal their wounds and take time to assess their forces and bury – or burn, more like – their dead before heading back to Winterfell.

Word had come up from the city that the Night King had indeed fallen to Arya Stark’s hand, but not before the Walker had managed to kill both Brandon Stark and Gendry. Ashara had been extremely pained to hear of the boy’s passing. He had deserved a better life, but at least, he’d have died protecting the girl he loved.

The losses had been catastrophic on their side. Jon Snow had lost his left hand to a Wight, saved in extremis by his Wildling friend Tormund, who had sacrificed himself in the process. Sandor Clegane had burnt alive while on the path of Rhaegal’s fire; and Jaime Lannister had lost an eye.

To think that Cersei Lannister still lurked around the corner, waiting with baited breath to annihilate the rest of them, was not really reassuring.

Ashara had only been content that Beric and her father yet lived, even if Jorah had sustained a rather ugly injury on his right side, thankfully easily healed, even if he would probably never be able to lift a sword ever again.

She had been watching Grey Worm’s pyre burn for quite some time by then, until Daenerys came to stand by her, for the first time in forever wearing only black, which made her white hair stand out even more.

“Lady Mormont, I have a favour to ask of you.”

Ashara did not bother telling the monarch once again that she was no lady, and merely arched a brow. “What might it be, Your Grace?”

“Cersei Lannister’s armies are much more numerous than ours now, we need to regroup and make sure to protect the North while it stands united. The problem is that, in our haste to bring all our soldiers in one place, we have left some of our bastions unprotected.” Again, Ashara did not bother explaining that Daenerys was technically Queen of nothing, and that she should refer to Jon as rightful King of the North. Instead, she questioned some more.

“You’d have me go to some of those bastions and defend it?”

“More than that, defend its people. Without order, chaos no doubt has arisen. The poor are being oppressed, the women are being used and raped, and I cannot even begin to fathom what is being done to children.” Purple eyes met green ones, and they were dark with purpose. “We need our people safe. They are Westeros’ future, not soldiers. That is what other Kings and Queens have failed to understand.”

Silence fell, during which Ashara saw logic in the she-dragon’s words. It was what Beric and the Brotherhood had thrived to do, after all, for years: protect the poor and defenceless against the injustice of the world.

She forced herself not to think about the Lightning Lord, waiting for her return in Winterfell. They were doomed to be apart, after all, and her duty had always been to more than just her heart.

“Where would you have me go?”

“Riverrun,” came the immediate answer. “After the Freys were murdered by Lady Stark, it was left to its own doings, and my Hand told me recently that peasants from all over the Riverlands had taken the Keep. We need it ordered, just, and defended, in case the Lannisters come. Would you be willing?”

“Am I to go on my own?” She didn’t mind, but failed to see how she could defend a whole city the size of Riverrun – which she had seen from the plains many times – by her lonesome.

“I will give you nine of the least injured Unsullied I have left. They will be more than enough until a smith can forge weapons and you can train more soldiers.” Daenerys’ gaze turned darker still. “I loathe the idea of using children as warriors, but we may not have a choice.”

Ashara nodded. “I will do what I can to insure everyone in the Riverlands feels treated justly and equally. Your Grace.” She bowed the head, and her thoughts went to the sole person she truly had to say goodbye to. “Where is my father?”

The white-haired girl smiled sadly. “He is with Missandei.”

And Ash went in the direction of the Queen’s tent, knowing she’d find the kind and innocent translator in the arms of Jorah, crying for the loss of her love. She wished she had the heart to still cry…

* * *

_307 A.C. // 1 A.G.W. (After the Great Winter) Riverrun_

* * *

“My Lady!” Ashara groaned in annoyance for the umpteenth time, but did not have the heart to scold the tiny boy of six who was running her way, his face dirty with the mud he had not doubt been playing with all morning.

“What is it Garen?” She wiped sweat off her forehead and handed the hammer to the man closest to her, who carried on with her current work – finishing the roof on the newest and refurbished stables.

The boy’s big eyes widened upon seeing her from up close. True, she had for a long time been parading in her armour, and people around here were still not used to seeing her in plain sleeveless tunics while she worked, but Ashara was still surprised to see the wonder and sometimes fear on their faces when they caught sight of one of her old scars.

The one on her face had grown angrier still, and she was certain by then that she had earned her moniker well – as the citizens of Riverrun had caught to calling her ‘She-Bear’ – but strangely enough it wasn’t the one that scared most people away.

Garen gulped once or twice before carrying on with his message. “Maeste Bandon’s askin’ for you ma’am.” His pronunciation betrayed his lack of education, something that Ashara would very soon be correcting – the classroom was for the moment used as an infirmary, as many men were injured upon building or training.

“Very well then. You can go back to your sisters.” Garen smiled, showing off two white teeth – the latest one – and a bunch of dark ones. His innocence made her lips twitch upright, and she caught herself remembering a time when she avoided her septa and went to bother her granpi.

Good times…

* * *

Maester Bandon was a relatively young man – merely three years older than Jorah – and had come from the Twins after the Frey’s fall. Bent on helping where he could, he had been the only person of sense already present when Ashara and her small escort had arrived a year prior.

He was short-statured and balding a little, but his dark eyes lit with fierce intelligence that, and it was a rare enough quality in a Maester to be notified, he liked to share with others.

He was currently talking in ushered tones with one of the guards – who also served as baker when he had time – and when he saw her, he waved the man away. “Ah, Miss Ash.” Bandon was also the only person within Riverrun to have caught up with her unwillingness to be called ‘Lady’. “I was waiting for you to give orders at the Gate, but apparently our visitors are quietly waiting outside.”

“Visitors?” Ashara’s blood started running cold, and she hurried to the window that gave onto the plains, trying to see the banner of a lion running in the faint wind. Instead, she saw nothing.

“Yes,” Bandon chuckled, “and there have not been sent by Cersei Lannister, so no need to bare your teeth, She-Bear.” Ashara sent him a quick glare, but he was not looking at her anyway. “I’ve been informed that a company of six has arrived at the Gate, seeking entry. They came from the North, or so they say.”

Many people came from everywhere, nowadays. People seeking refuge, most of the time. But also, once, a spy from King’s Landing who had been sent home in a box. Courtesy of Daenerys’ Unsullied.

“Peasants, soldiers? Smiths?”

Ashara secretly hoped for the latter. Riverrun was lacking in some craftsmanship, especially in the art of weapon-making. There still were three men able to smith things, but not of great quality or sturdiness. Unfortunately.

“Neither. Their leader claims to be something of a ‘peace-maker’ and that their ‘warmongering days are behind them’.” This made Ashara’s brow furrowed. The words were strange, familiar but twisted.

It almost sounded like something Thoros would say.

“Do you know the name of said leader?” Her throat constricted, making the words hoarse and Bandon look up in surprise. He had probably never seen her waver under emotion before. Good. It would not be a regular occurrence.

“No, he hasn’t given a name. However, Eryk,” – the baker/guard – “said that he is missing an eye, and has a neck that looks like it’s been bitten through.” Ashara had blanked visibly under that description, and he took a pace towards her. "I think it safe to say you know him.”

“I wish I didn’t,” she whispered, and she meant it. If she had never known Beric Dondarrion, her heart wouldn’t be beating too fast and her skin would not be flushing hot right then. She hated her body’s reaction to him, even when he wasn’t present. She was no longer the young twenty-year-old with raging hormones: she was a twenty-eight-year-old who had chosen never to marry.

She didn’t skip a beat though, heading straight for the door with a clear “Allow them in. I’ll be down at the stables” before she did just that: head for the stables to finish her work.

* * *

Thankfully for Ashara’s heart, or perhaps not, she didn’t see her visitors until later that day, when a man she had never seen before came to greet her and pass on the good wishes of Ser Davos. Apparently, he had worked with the man to rebuild Winterfell.

She had gone back inside to freshen up a bit, and had just climbed a dozen stairs when she heard her name being called. And not in an insignificant way. It was her full name, ‘Ashara Mormont’, and it was uttered by a deep scorching voice she’d know everywhere.

She took her time to turn around, and when she did, she saw him, lit up by a ray of dying sunlight like in a childish fairytale, eye-patch nowhere to be seen but smile in place. He was calmly ascending the stairs, staring at her straight on, as if daring her to run away from him again.

She daren’t, and stared at him as he approached, each step he climbed making her heart beat faster and louder.

At last Beric Dondarrion stood in front of Ashara Mormont, and then…she smiled.


End file.
